LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


MAY  RILEY   SMITH. 


WAIFS, 


AND     THEIR     AUTHORS, 


BY 

A.    A.    HOPKINS. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


BOSTON: 
D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY, 

32  FRANKLIN  STREET. 


COPYRIGHT    BY 

A.    A.    HOPKINS. 

1879. 


PREFACE. 

]OT  all  the  singers  sit  on  library  shelves,  in  dainty  cos- 
tume of  blue  and  gold,  and  sing  to  select  audiences. 
Some,  who  sing  most  sweetly,  occupy  the  "  Poet's  Cor- 
ner" of  the  newspaper,  and  find  listeners  in  homes  where  stately 
singers  seldom  come.  They  have  their  mission.  They  sing  of 
faith  and  hope  and  love,  so  simply,  so  tenderly,  so  sympathetic- 
ally, that  the  heart  of  the  people  is  touched.  They  strengthen  the 
popular  faith  ;  they  give  new  hope  to  the  desponding ;  they  move 
us  all  to  broader  good-will  and  a  nobler  charity.  Known  or  un- 
known, they  make  friends. 

It  is  these  whom  I  denominate  Newspaper  Poets.  When 
1  began  writing  of  them,  I  realized,  so  numerous  is  the  class,  that 
there  must  be  certain  limitations  ;  hence  I  determined  to  treat 
only  of  such  as  had  produced  one  poem,  at  least;  which  had  been 
extensively  copied  by  the  press.  Then  I  decided  to  include  none 
but  living  writers  ;  and  my  next  determination  was  to  include  no 
Waif  whose  author  had  gathered  his  or  her  poems  in  a  volume. 
These  limitations  appeared  desirable,  even  necessary — I  have  held 
rigidly  by  them.  "Kate  Cameron"  has  passed  away,  since  I  first 
wrote  of  her  ;  and  Benj.  F.  Taylor  has  lately  put  forth  a  collec- 


iv  PREFACE. 

tion  of  "Old -Time  Pictures,"  in  his  inimitable  verse,  to  the  great 
delight  of  thousands ;  but  both  came  within  the  bounds  I  had  set, 
when  treated  of,  and  I  have  not  chosen  t.  exclude  either  now. 

The  chapters  which  follow  were  originally  contributed  to  The 
American  Rural  Home.  Each  has  been  carefully  revised  ;  two  or 
three  have  been  almost  entirely  re -written ;  and  much  interesting 
matter,  biographical  and  poetical,  has  been  added  to  them  all. 
I  have  not  aimed  in  any  case  to  be  critical,  nor  have  I  sought  to 
analyze  the  various  authors  treated  of.  My  one  purpose  has  been, 
in  every  instance,  to  tell  a  Waif's  story — when  it  had  any  to  tell  ; 
to  make  its  authorship  definitely  known  ;  to  narrate  what  might 
be  of  general  interest  touching  its  author ;  and  to  show,  by  other 
selections  from  his  or  her  pen,  what  are  that  author' s  tendencies 
of  thought  and  peculiarities  of  style. 

The  book  has  cost  me  not  a  little  of  painstaking.  I  was  led 
to  attempt  it  because  I  happened  to  know  the  authorship  of  a  few 
Waifs  whose  authorship  was  generally  unknown  ;  because  I  hap  - 
pened  also  to  know  the  authors,  and  could  speak  of  them  intelli  - 
gently  ;  and  because  I  thought  many  people  would  be  glad  to  read 
somewhat  concerning  them.  To  trace  out  the  parentage  of  other 
waifs,  in  regard  to  which  I  had  no  information  whatever,  was  not 
easy ;  and  having  succeeded  in  doing  this,  I  have  found  it  very 
difficult  to  obtain  such  other  facts  as  I  desired.  A  few  of  these 
chapters  may  testify  of  my  patience 

I  should  have  taken  pleasure  in  making  this  volume  far  more 
elaborate  in  print  and  dress,  and  would  gladly  have  added  a  por- 
trait of  each  author ;  but  the  poems  it  presents  are  for  the  popular 


PREFACE.  v 

heart,  they  deserve  popular  perusal,  they  will  uplift  and  make  glad 
wherever  they  go,  and  they  shall  not  be  debarred  from  going  into 
any  home,  in  their  present  form,  because  of  high  price. 

Of  course  the  Waifs  are  not  all  here.  If  this  volume  shall 
find  sufficient  encouragement,  another  and  similar  one  may  be 
forthcoming  in  due  time. 

A.  A.  H. 
THE  RURAL  HOME  SANCTUM, 


In,  DecLtccution. 


HERE  are   sweet-singing  birds  of  song 

That  sing  in  easy  range  of  all, 
And  thro'  the  tumult  of  the  throng, 
Their  tender  grace  of  tone  let  fall 

Their  notes  are  set  in  finest  tune 

With  hope  and  sorrow,  faith  and  care  ; 

They  breathe  a  breath  of  balmy  June 
On  bleak  December's  chilly  air. 

Beside  the  weary  way  they  sing 

Till  longing  souls  their  pain  forget, 

And  dream  of  rest  where  blossoms  spring, 
Beyond  the  deserts  of  regret. 

Perchance  when  silence  steals  along, 
The  singers,  listening,  watt  to  hear 

Some  echo  of  their  own  sweet  song 
Float  upward  to  them  sweet  and  clear. 

And  so  from  silence  tuneful  grown, 

The  while  they  silent,  listening 
To  these  I  echo  back  their  own, 

To  these  their  own  I  dedicate. 


CONTENTS. 

POETS  Page 

May  Riley  Smith i 

Lewis  J.  Bates 19 

Benjamin  F.  Taylor    -        -        --        -        -        -35 

•Eliza  O.  Peirson     -        -. 57 

M.  H.  Cobb 67 

James  G.  Clark        -  79 

Mary  F.  Tucker  -         -         -    99 

J.  W.  Barker  109 

M.  A.  Kidder      -  121 

Charles  M.  Dickinson       ------       129 

Delle  W.  Norton  141 

Francis  M.  Finch     -         -         -  -         -         -       157 

Margaret  E.  Sangster 169 

Simeon  Tucker  Clark       -         -         -         -         ••        -       187 
Kate  B.  W.  Barnes       -  207 

John  H.  Yates  -         -         -      221 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers          - 239 

Rosa  H.  Thorpe       -  -     259 

George  W.  Bungay       -  -  27r 

Mary  Clemmer  -     287 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 

POEMS 

If  we  Knew         - 

If     ----- 5 

Tired  Mothers      ----  --.-7 

Waiting    - 

To  My  Mother    -------  IO 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

In  Prison n 

Sometimes  14 

His  Name  Shall  be  in  Their  Foreheads    -         -         -  16 

Under  the  Ice       .......  j^ 

By-and-By         --_.-__         -25 

Right  Can  Afford  to  Wait 27 

Son^e  Sweet  Day       --  --..31 

Oui  Better  Day              ----_.  33 

The  Long  Ago         ------.36 

The  Beautiful  River     ------  40 

God  Bless  our  Stars  Forever  43 

The  New  Craft  in  the  Offing         -  40, 

The  Old  Fashioned  Choir        -----  50 

A  Winter  Psalm 52 

The  Rose  and  the  Robin          -         -         -         _         .  ec 

Ripe  Wheat                                              -  58 

Mignonette              -------  60 

Over  the  Graves 61 

A  Swedish  Legend  63 

Light  on  the  Hills         ---.__  5^ 

The  World  Would  be  the  Better  for  It      '                  -  68 

The  Ships  that  Sail  Away       -  72 

December •         -        -  73 

A  Ship  Sailed  out  to  Sea 74 

The  Mountain  in  the  West          -        -        -        -        -76 

Art  Thou  Living  Yet                                  .         .         .  79 

The  Mountains  of  Life        ....                  -  83 

The  Beautiful  Hills         -                          -        -        -  84 

Marion  Moore              85 

Sweet  Ruth 87 

Leona                                                         ...         -  90 

The  Dawn  of  Redemption      -  93 

The  Wood  Robin        -         .                 -        -         -        -  96 


CONTENTS.  xi 

Cometh  a  Blessing  Down        -          ....  gg 

Going  Up  and  Coming  Down      -  100 

Indian  Summer _         _  IO2 

A  Picture              -----._  Io,i 

Thou 105 

Invocation            -                          -        ...  I05 

I  Love  Him  So I03 

Picking  Lint         - I0q 

By-and-By IXI 

Under  the  Snow •      ,.  II2 

Darning  Stockings -  113 

Morning's  Advent          -         -         .         .         .         .  ug 

Purpose             -          -......_  Il8 

The  Bright  Side    -         -         .         -         -      '   ,.         .  I2I 

Watch  Mother           -         - I23 

Buying  Crown   Jewels  -         -         -         -         -         .  125 

Who  Misses  Him       -----__  I26 

The  Children        -- I2g 

Of  Bessie          -----._.  135 

The  Drummer  Boy        _-....  jgg 

How  far  from  Heaven        -         -         -         -         -         .  136 

Do  Not  Slam  the  Gate  141 

The  Missing  Ship 143 

Call  me  no  Longer  Thine    ---...  145 

At  Rest -  i4; 

Gangin  Awa 150 

To  the  Robin  Redbreast 152 

My  Kingdom 154 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 158 

The  Storm  King            -         -         -         -         -         -  166 

Are  the  Children  at  Home 169 

A  Vesper  Song 174 

The  Welcome 176 

Our  Own                 -        -        -         -        -        -        -  177 


CONTENTS. 

The  Heaven  Side      -------  178 

Before  the  Leaves  Fall  *79 

The  Building  of  the  Nest          -•-*•-        -        -  180 

Wayfarers  181 

Sufficient  Unto  the  Day 183 

Alice  Gary  184 
Coming  and  Going  -         -         -         -         -         -         -1 88 

Geraldine  190 

Perdita             --------  192 

To  the  Venus  of  Milo  ------  193 

Three  Sonnets,  but  no  Song     -----  194 

Love  is  Sweeter  than  Rest  19° 

Sympathy         -                  -  *97 

G61den-Rod  198 

The  Thorn  and  Cross                  -----  201 

Toward  Emmaus                                        -         -         -  203 

Why  the  Sea  Complains     ------  204 

Sn^ileWhen  e'er  You  Can      -         -         -         -         -  211 

Patient  Waiting 212 

The  Unprofitable  Servant      -                           -         -  213 

The  Departed  215 

Old  Fashioned  Songs      -         -         .                   -         -  217 

The  Time  to  Come    -                            -  218 

In  Time  of  Trial     -         -         -         -         -         -         -  219 

The  Old  Man  in  the  New  Church                  -         -        -  221 

John  's  Gone  off  To  Day                   -         -         -         -  232 

In  the  old  Forsaken  School  House         -        -        -       -235 

A  Song  of  Home                237 

The  Picket  Guard                                                               -  239 

On  the  Snores  of  Tennessee              ....  243 

The  Tallest  Soldier  of  them  All         -  246 

Weighing  the  Baby  247 

Grannie's  Test  249 

Which  Shall  it  Be                      -         -         -         -  -251 


CONTENTS. 

Xljl 

The  Gold  Nugget  253 

The  Evergreen's  Moan         -         -         ...  256 

Curfew  must  not  Ring  To-Night  -         .        .  209 

Down  the  Track  263 

The  Luck  of  Muncaster  -  265 

Waiting       - 268 

Bless  God  for  Rain  271 

The  Locomotive  273 

The  Creeds  of  the  Bells  -        -  -        -        -  276 

The  Night  Wind  280 
The  English  Sparrow      -        -        -        -        -         -281 

The  Artists  of  the  Air  283 

The  Captain's  Sweetheart  2.85 

The  Childless  Mother  2^,7 

Words  for  Parting  ._---.  2go 

Arbutus        -  292 

Fall  In  -  296 

Good-by,  Sweeiheart    -  298 

Something  Beyond  -         -         -  300 

The  Christ  301 

A  Four-O-Clock  303 

The  Rose  306 

Daybreak  -         -  307 

Song  3io 

April         -         .--  310 

O,  Soft  Spring  Airs       ------  311 

Under  the  Snowdrift  -         -         -         -         -  312 

Afternoon  ..-..--  313 

Sorrow  -  3*4 


MAY    EILEY    SMITH. 

[EW  waifs  have  found  more  frequent  editorial 
adoption  and  house-room  than  one  generally 
bearing  the  title  "If  We  Knew."  Every  news- 
paper in  the  land,  almost,  has  given  it  a  place  from  year  to 
year,  since  it  strayed  from  home.  Careless  scissors  early 
clipped  away  all  hint  of  authorship,  and  careless  compos- 
itors have  so  marred  the  waif  itself  that  often  it  seems  in 
disguise.  On  one  occasion,  indeed,  it  has  been  awkward- 
ly transformed,  and,  with  a  new  name  attached,  has  gone 
abroad  with  a  new  claimant  for  its  parentage.  Perhaps  it 
is  going  so,  still.  It  originally  appeared  in  the  Rochester 
Union  &  A dvertiser  of  February  23,  1867,  with  its  author's 
identity  thinly  veiled  under  the  initials  "M.  L.  R.,"  and 
the  date  of  "Brighton."  We  give  it  as  then  put  forth  : 

IF  WE  KNEW. 

If  we  knew  the  woe  and  heart-ache 

Waiting  for  us  down  the  road, 
If  our  lips  could  taste  the  wormwood, 

If  our  backs  could  feel  the  load , 
Would  we  waste  to-day  in  wishing 

For  a  time  that  ne'er  can  be  ? 
Would  we  wait  in  such  impatience 

For  our  ships  to  come  from  sea  ? 


WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

If  we  knew  the  baby  fingers 

Pressed  against  the  window-pane, 
Would  be  cold  and  stiff  to-morrow — 

Never  trouble  us  again  ; 
Would  the  bright  eyes  of  our  darling 

Catch  the  frown  upon  our  brow  ? 
Would  the  prints  of  rosy  ringers 

Vex  us  then  as  they  do  now  ? 

Ah,  those  little  ice-cold  fingers, 

How  they  point  our  memories  back 
To  the  hasty  words  and  actions 

Strewn  along  our  backward  track  ! 
How  those  little  hands  remind  us, 

As  in  snowy  grace  they  lie, 
Not  to  scatter  thorns,  but  roses, 

For  our  reaping  by-and-by  ! 

Strange  we  never  prize  the  music 

Till  the  sweet-voiced  bird  has  flown  : 
Strange  that  we  should  slight  the  violets 

Till  the  lovely  flowers  are  gone ; 
Strange  that  summer  skies  and  sunshine 

Never  seem  one-half  so  fair 
As  when  Winter's  snowy  pinions 

Shake  their  white  down  in  the  air ! 

Lips  from  which  the  seal  of  silence 

None  but  God  can  roll  away, 
Never  blossomed  in  such  beauty 

As  adorns  the  mouth  to-day  ;      . 
And  sweet  words  that  freight  our  memory 

With  their  beautiful  perlume, 
Come  to  us  in  sweeter  accents 

Through  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  3 

h* 
Let  us  gather  up  the  sunbeams 

Lying  all  along  our  path  ; 
Let  us  keep  the  wheat  and  roses, 

Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff ; 
Let  us  find  our  sweetest  comfort 

In  the  blessings  of  to-day ; 
With  a  patient  hand  removing 

All  the  briars  from  our  way. 

Before  Mrs.  Albert  Smith,  now  of  Chicago,  Illinois, 
was  married  to  the  man  of  her  choice  in  the  Brick 
Church  of  Rochester,  N.  Y. — which  was  about  seven  years 
ago — she  lived  in  Brighton,  a  suburb  of  that  city,  and 
Wrote  herself  May  Louise  Riley.  She  was  born  on  the 
29th  of  May,  1842,  in  that  same  Brighton,  in  a  pretty 
white  cottage  surrounded  by  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  flow- 
ers, its  very  atmosphere  suggestive  of  things  poetical. 
"Wasn't  it  long,"  she  wrote  once  to  a  friend,  "to  live 
in  the  old  house  twenty-seven  years  ?  to  call  it  home  all 
that  time  ?  "  Of  course  she  was  away  somewhat — at 
Brockport  Collegiate  Institute  two  years ;  another  year 
she  devoted  herself  to  painting  ;  another  year  she  spent 
at  the  West.  "But  all  that  time,"  she  wrote,  " I  came 
and  went  from  the  old  home.  Saw  father  die  there,  and 
a  sister,  and  seven  years  ago  brother  Charlie  followed 
them,  and  came  no  more  back  forever. " 

Of  a  warm,  impulsive  nature,  her  love  for  her  birth- 
place, and  for  the  old  associations  clinging  about  it,  glows 
in  the  very  tone  of  her  words.  It  is  an  element  akin  to 
this  which  makes  her  poems  so  popular — their  homeliness, 


4  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

we  might  almost  say.  They  are  never  cold,  icy  bits  of 
intellectuality,  which  you  can  admire  but  do  not  feel  ; 
they  come  welling  up  warmly  from  her  heart,  and  sink 
tremulously  into  yours.  The  chords  she  strikes  are  re- 
sponsive chords.  She  touches  the  key-note  of  all  that  is 
best  in  human  nature — sympathy — and  it  vibrates  every- 
where. To  those  who  know  Mrs.  Smith,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  she  writes  as  she  does.  There  is  nothing  somber  in 
her  blue  eyes,  nor  in  her  light-brown  hair  or  sunshiny 
face.  She  believes  in  the  bright  side  ;  she  sings  as  she 
believes.  In  conversation  and  in  correspondence  her 
nature  is  manifest,  and  she  wins  friends  wherever  she  goes. 

"If  We  Knew"  was  one  of  Mrs.  Smith's  earliest 
poems.  It  has  not  quite  the  finish  of  some  later  efforts, 
but  has  in  a  large  degree  her  individuality.  It  is  one  of 
those  simple,  unpretending  things,  far  easier  in  the  seem- 
ing than  in  the  doing,  unless  one  be  born  thereto,  which 
will  continue  to  live.  Having  been  set  to  music,  under 
title  of  "Scatter- seeds  of  kindness,"  the  last  three  stanzas 
appear  often  in  school  song-books,  and  are  often  sung. 
Gerrit  Smith  had  an  especial  liking  for  them,  and  at  his 
burial  they  were  sung  by  a  choir  of  children  from  the  or- 
phan asylum  he  endowed  and  maintained. 

Mrs.  Smith  has  fine  literary  taste,  and  writes  grace- 
fully and  excellently  in  prose.  She  has  contributed 
sketches,  as  well  as  poems,  to  various  newspapers  and 
other  periodicals,  and  some  of  them  have  been  widely 
copied.  The  Troy  Whig,  The  Union  and  Advertiser  and 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  5 

The  Rural  Home,  of  Rochester,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
New  York  story  papers,  have  published  many  contribu- 
tions from  her  pen.  She  writes  easily  and  rapidly,  with 
a  felicitous  choice  of  words ;  and  in  general  her  versifica- 
tion is  very  melodious,  very  perfect. 

We  have  alluded  to  her  sympathy.  One  can  hardly 
find  real  poetic  sentiment  allied  to  more  tender  sympathy 
than  is  contained  in  this  poem  : 


If,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out  shoe 
And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on  my  knee, 

I  knewv  the  little  feet  had  pattered  through 

The  pearl-set  gates  that  lie  'twixt  heaven  and  me, 

I  could  be  reconciled  and  happy  too, 

And  look  with  glad  eyes  toward  the  Jasper  Sea 

If,  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of  birds     , 
Reminds  me  of  a  music  far  more  sweet, 

I  listen  for  his  pretty  broken  words 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled  feet, 

I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I  heard 
No  answer,  and  but  saw  his  vacant  seat. 

I  could  be  glad,  if,  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  all  its  cares  and  heart-aches  laid  away, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden  sun, 

And,  with  a  heart  full  of  sweet  yearnings,  say— 
"  To-night  I  'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 
By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  I  could  know  those  little  feet  were  shod 
In  sandals,  wrought  of  light  in  better  lands, 


6  WAIFS  AND  THElR  A  UTHORS. 

And  that  the  foot-prints  of  a  tender  God 
Ran  side  by  side  with  his,  in  golden  sands, 

I  could  bow  cheerfully  and  Kiss  the  rod, 
Since  Benny  was  in  wiser,  safer  hands. 

If  he  were  dead,  I  would  not  sit  to-day 
And  stain  with  tears  the  wee  sock  on  my  knee ; 

I  would  not  kiss  the  tiny  shoe,  and  say, 
"Bring  back  again  my  little  boy  to  me  '" 

I  would  be  patient,  knowing  't  was  God's  way, 
And  wait  to  meet  him  p'er  death's  silent  sea. 

But  O !  to  know  the  feet,  once  pure  and  white, 
The  haunts  of  vice  have  boldly  ventured  in  ! 

The  hands  that  should  have  battled  for  the  right 
Have  been  wrung  crimson  in  the  clasp  of  sin  ! 

And  should  he  knock  at  heaven's  gate,  to-night, 
I  fear  my  boy  could  hardly  enter  in. 

6ome  mother  has  wept  over  it,  we  are  certain — some 
one  whose  motherhood  brings  her  more  of  sorrowing 
than  of  joy.  Mayhap,  too,  some  wayward  Benny,  feeling 
his  mother's  heart  throb  in  every  line,  has  come  back  to 
purer  paths  for  her  sake.  Who  knows  ?  This  poem  has 
also  strayed  widely  as  a  waif.  There  are  few  more  real- 
istic bits  of  verse,  and  it  stands  in  pathetic  witness  against 
a  theory  held  by  many  good  people,  that  genuine  pathos 
can  come  only  from  actual  experience — that  poets  must 
' '  learn  in  sorrow  what  they  teach  in  song. "  When  Mrs. 
Smith  wrote  "If,"  she  knew  not  the  joys  of  motherhood, 
in  her  own  person,  and  some  will  ask,  "How,  then,  could 
she  be  so  touched  by  its  possible  pain  ?  Is  poetic  send- 


A  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 
Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear; 
A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 
From  underneath  a  thatch  ot  tangled  hair." 

/ 


Page  7. 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  7 

ment  all  a  fiction  ?  "  No,  the  sentiment  is  real  always, 
when  it  is  true,  and  it  makes  impress  only  in  proportion 
to  its  truth  ;  but  the  reality  may  be  of  fancy  alone,  or,  if 
you  please,  of  sympathetic  imagination.  That  which  you 
read  with  a  heart-throb,  was  written  with  a  heart-throb. 
There  is  a  fiction  of  sentiment  so  real,  momentarily,  to 
the  poet,  that  others  may  be  excused  for  believing  it  real 
always.  In  further  evidence  of  this,  we  have  the  follow- 
ing, written  for  The  Aldine,  and  thence  widely  re-printed  : 

TIRED  MOTHERS. 

A.  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 

Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear ; 
A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 

From  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers  holding  yours  so  tight ; 
You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch  ; 

You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray,  to-night. 

But  it  is  blessedness  !    A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day — 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless,  and  so  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  till  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me 

That,  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 

And  if,  some  night,  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 
You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee — 

This  restless,  curly  head  from  off  your  breast, 
This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly  ; 


8  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

If  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hands  had  slipped, 
And  ne'er  would  nestle  in  your  palm  again  : 

If  the  white  feet  into  their  grave  had  tripped, 
I  could  not  blame  you  for  your  heart-ache  then. 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown ; 
Or  that  the  foot-prints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 

Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber  floor; 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  it  patter  in  my  home  once  more : 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky — 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But,  ah  !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head ; 
My  singing  bh'dling  from  its  nest  has  flown  ; 

The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead ! 

Did  we  not  know  how  strong  the  mother  instinct  is 
in  every  woman's  breast,  and  did  we  not  realize  how 
sympathy  can  move  upon  sentiment  and  bend  it  at  its 
will,  there  would  be  no  accounting  for  some  of  Mrs. 
Smith's  poems,  written  before  she  came  to  woman's  re- 
gal crown.  We  have  given  two  of  her  mother -thoughts 
in  rhyme,  and  for  the  sake  of  some  who  daily  feel  what 
motherhood's  loss  can  be — who  are  weary  with  listening 
for  the  little  feet  that  nevermore  may  come,  we  add  this  : 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH. 

WAITING. 

When  the  crickets  chirp  in  the  evening, 

And  the  stars  flash  out  in  the  sky, 
I  sit  in  my  lonely  doorway 

And  watch  the  children  go  by. 
I  look  at  their  fresh  young  faces, 

And  hark  to  each  merry  word, 
For  to  me,  a  child's  own  language 

Is  the  sweetest  e'er  was  heard. 

And  so  I  sit  in  my  doorway 

In  the  hour  that  I  love  best, 
And  think,  as  I  see  them  passing, 

My  child  will  come  with  the  rest ; 
Think,  when  I  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  little  garden  gate, 
My  darling's  hand  is  upon  it — 

O,  why  has  she  come  so  rate  ? 

But  the  days  have  been  slowly  v/eavlng 

Their  warp  of  toil  in  my  life  ; 
The  weeks  have  rolled  on  me  their  burden 

Of  waiting,  and  patience,  rvnd  strife  ; 
The  flowers  that  came  with  the  summer 

Have  finished  their  errand  so  sweet, 
And  autumn  is  dropping  her  harvest, 

Mellow  and  ripe,  at  my  feet. 

And  yet  my  little  girl  comes  not, 

And  I  think  she  has  missed  her  way, 

And  strayed  from  this  cold,  dark  country 
To  one  of  perpetual  day. 

I  think  that  the  angels  have  found  her, 
And,  loving  her  better  than  we, 


10  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  U7HORS. 

Have  begged  the  Good  Father  to  keep  her, 
Right  on,  through  eternity. 

Perhaps.     But  I  long  to  enfold  her, 

To  tangle  my  hand  in  her  hair, 
To  feast  my  starved  mouth  on  her  kisses, 

To  hear  her  light  foot  on  the  stair. 
I  am  but  a  poor,  selfish  mother, 

And  mother  -  hearts  starve  though  they  know 
,  Their  children  are  drinking  the  nectar 

From  lilies  in  heaven  that  blow. 

Some  day  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  her, 

But  the  road  is  so  lonesome  between, 
My  spirit  grows  sick  and  impatient 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  pastures  so  green  ; 
-  Till  then  I  shall  sit  in  the  doorway, 

In  the  hour  that  my  heart  loves  best, 
*       And  think,  when  the  children  pass  homeward, 
My  child  will  comii  \vith  the  rest. 

The  same  impulse  which  prompts  Mrs.  Smith  to  pen 
these  tender  memories  of  motherhood,  breathes  out  in 
tender,  reverential  love  for  the  mother  whose  child  she  is. 
On  that  mother's  seventy -third  birth -day  she  penned  this 
feeling  tribute,  which  was  published  in  The  Rural  Home: 

TO    MY    MOTHER. 

The  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world  to  me, 
Set  in  a  frame  of  shining,  silver  hair  ; 

With  eyes  whose  language  is  fidelity, — 
This  is  my  mother.     Is  she  not  most  fair  ? 

Ten  little  heads  have  found  their  sweetest  sleep 
Upon  the  pillow  of  her  loving  breast. 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  t  j 

The  world  is  wide :  yet  nowhere  does  it  keep 
So  safe  a  haven, — so  complete  a  rest. 

Her  hands  are  neither  beautiful  nor  fair, 

Yet  seemed  they  lovely  in  her  children's  eyes, 

We  found  our  daily  strength  and  comfort  there, 
And  if  her  hands  were  rough, — we  were  not  wise 

*T  is  counted  something  great  to  be  a  queen, 
And  bend  a  kingdom  to  a  woman's  will ; 

To  be  a  mother  such  as  mine,  I  ween, 
Is  something  better  and  more  noble  still. 

0  mother  !  in  the  changeful  years  now  flown, 
Since  as  a  child  I  leant  upon  your  knee, 

Life  has  not  brought  to  me,  nor  fortune  shown, 
Such  tender  love  !  such  yearning  sympathy  ! 

Let  fortune  smile  or  frown, — whiche'er  she  will 
It  matters  not.     I  scorn  her  fickle  ways  ! 

1  never  shall  be  quite  bereft,  until 

I  lose  my  mother's  honest  blame  and  praise  ! 

Touchingly  sympathetic,   though  of  another  ordei 
of  sympathy  from  either  poem  quoted,  is  this,  entitled 

IN    PRISON. 

God  pity  the  wretched  prisoners, 

In  their  lonely  cells  to-day ! 
Whatever  the  sins  that  tripped  them, 

God  pity  them  !  still  I  say. 

Only  a  strip  of  sunshine, 

Cleft  by  rusty  bars  ; 
Only  a  patch  of  azure, 

Only  a  cluster  of  stars  ; 


WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Only  a  barren  future, 

To  starve  their  hope  upon  ; 
Only  stinging  memories 

Of  a  past  that's  better  gone. 
Only  scorn  from  women, 

Only  hate  from  men, 
Only  remorse  to  whisper 

Of  a  life  that  might  have  been. 

Once  they  were  little  children, 

And  perhaps  their  unstained  feet 
Were  led  by  a  gentle  mother 

Toward  the  golden  street ; 
Therefore,  if  in  life's  forest 

They  since  have  lost  their  way, 
For  the  sake  of  her  who  loved  them, 

God  pity  them !  still  I  say. 

O,  mothers  gone  to  heaven  ! 

With  earnest  heart  I  ask 
That  your  eyes  may  not  look  earthward 

On  the  failure  of  your  task  ! 
For  even  in  those  mansions 

The  choking  tears  would  rise, 
Though  the  fairest  hand  in  heaven 

Would  wipe  them  from  your  eyes  ! 

And  you,  who  judge  so  harshly, 

Are  you  sure  the  stumbling-stone 
That  tripped  the  feet  of  others 

Might  not  have  bruised  your  own  ? 
Are  you  sure  the  sad -faced  angel 

Who  writes  our  errors  down 
Will  ascribe  to  you  more  honor 

Than  him  on  whom  you  frown  ? 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  !  3 

Or,  if  a  steadier  purpose 

Unto  your  life  is  given  ; 
A  stronger  will  to  conquer, 

A  smoother  path  to  heaven  ; 
If,  when  temptations  meet  you, 

You  crush  them  with  a  smile  ; 
If  you  can  chain  pale  passion 

And  keep  your  lips  from  guile  ; 

Then  bless  the  hand  that  crowned  you 

Remembering,  as  you  go, 
'T  was  not  your  own  endeavor 

That  shaped  your  nature  so  ; 
And  sneer  not  at  the  weakness 

Which  made  a  brother  fall, 
For  the  hand  that  lifts  the  fallen 

God  loves  the  best  of  all  ! 

And  pray  for  the  wretched  prisoners 

All  over  the  land  to  -  day, 
That  a  holy  hand  in  pity 

May  wipe  their  guilt  away. 

These  verses  appeared  first  in  the  Rochester  Union 
&  Advertiser,  in  February,  1867.  A  few  months  since 
they  were  sent  to  the  Chicago  Tribune,  as  the  production 
of  an  inmate  of  the  penitentiary  at  Joliet,  and  were  pub- 
lished with  a  paragraph  recognizing  their  deep  feeling, 
and  speaking  of  the  fictitious  convict -poet  as  worthy  a 
better  fate.  The  Tribunes  indignation  on  learning  how 
it  had  been  deceived,  was  forcibly  expressed,  and  its  sober 
second  thought  as  to  the  convict's  worthiness,  did  not 
flatter  him. 


14  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Mrs.  Smith's  faith  in  God  is  well-nigh  unquestion- 
ing. She  rarely  doubts  that  whatever  He  does  is  right. 
Out  of  her  faith,  her  full,  implicit  trust  in  divine  wisdom, 
this  song  of  comfort  grew  : 

SOMETIME. 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons  have  been  learned, 

And  sun  and  stars  forevermore  have  set, 
The  things  which  our  weak  judgments  here  have  spurned, 

The  things  o  'er  which  we  grieved  with  lashes  wet, 
Will  flash  before  us,  out  of  life's  dark  night, 

As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of  blue ; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans  are  right, 

And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was  love  most  true. 

And  we  shall  see  how,  while  we  frown  and  sigh, 

God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you  and  me  ; 
How,  when  we  called,  He  heeded  not  our  cry, 

Because  His  wisdom  to  the  end  could  see. 
And  e  'en  as  prudent  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  babyhood, 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from  us  now 

Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it  seemeth  good.1 

And  if,  sometimes,  commingled  with  life's  wine, 

We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel  and  shrink, 
Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mine 

Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to  drink. 
And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low, 

Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his  face, 
Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so, 

But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace  ! 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH.  x  5 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  His  friend, 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall  of  death 

Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love  can  send. 
If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within  and  all  God's  workings  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a  key  ! 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor  heart  i 

God's  plans  like  lilies  pure  and  white  unfold. 
We  must  not  tear  the  close -shut  leaves  apart, 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil,  we  reach  the  land 

Where  tired  -feet,  with  sandals  loosed,  may  rest, 
When  we  shall  clearly  know  and  understand, 

I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew  the  best ! " 

Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  (  "H.H.")  has  been  credited 
with  this,  but  unjustly.  In  response  to  our  query  of  veri- 
fication, Mrs.  Smith  said:  "Yes,  I  wrote  'Sometime' 
on  the  cars  one  day,  journeying  along  from  Chicago  to 
Springfield.  It  was  suggested  by  the  conversation  of  a 
lady  and  gentleman  occupying  seats  in  front  of  me.  She 
held  in  her  hand  the  portrait  of  a  lovely  child,  and  some- 
times kissed  it,  and  as  she  talked  of  the  little  one  her 
tears  fell  like  rain.  I  grew  sober  and  sad,  and  drew  my 
pencil  from  my  pocket  and  wrote  out  my  thoughts  on  a 
piece  of  crumpled  paper.  " 

Very  different  from  the  foregoing,  yet  not  less  illus- 


1 6  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

trative  of  Mrs.  Smith's  hope  and  faith,  is  this  prophetic 
vision  of  a  day  to  come  : 

HIS  NAME  SHALL  BE  IN  THEIR  FOREHEADS. 

When  I  shah  go  where  my  Redeemer  is, 

In  the  far  city  on  the  other  side, 
And  at  the  threshold  of  His  palaces 

Shall  loose  my  sandals,  ever  to  abide ; 
I  know  my  Heavenly  King  will  smiling  wait 
To  give  me  welcome  as  I  touch  the  gate. 

O  joy  !  O  bliss  !  for  I  shall  see  His  face, 

And  wear  His  blessed  name  upon  my  brow  ! 

The  name  that  stands  for  pardon,  love,  and  grace 
That  name  before  which  every  knee  shall  bow. 

No  music  half  so  sweet  can  ever  be 

As  that  dear  name  which  He  shall  write  for  me  ! 

Crowned  with  this  royal  signet,  I  shall  walk 

With  lifted  forehead  through  the  eternal  street ; 

And  with  a  holier  mien,  and  gentler  talk, 
Will  tell  my  story  to  the  friends  I  meet — 

Of  how  the  King  did  stoop  His  name  to  write 

Upon  my  brow,  in  characters  of  light  ! 

Then,  till  I  go  to  meet  my  Father's  smile, 

I  '11  keep  my  forehead  smooth  from  passion's  scars, 

From  angry  frowns  that  trample  and  defile, 
And  every  sin  that  desecrates  or  mars  ; 

That  I  may  lift  a  face  unflushed  with  shame, 

Whereon  my  Lord  may  write  His  holy  name. 

There  are  some  who  believe  that  nothing  is  truly 
poetical  in  which  the  heart  shows  chiefly.     We  do  not 


MA  Y  RILE  Y  SMITH. 


i'7 


estimate  poets  by  this  rule.  It  would  rob  Burns,  and 
Byron,  and  Moore,  and  Hood  of  half  or  all  their  laurels. 
Poetry  begotten  of  passion  is  ever  debasing;  poetry  born 
of  real  heartfulness  ennobles  always  and  uplifts.  May 
Riley  Smith,  then,  is  a  truer  poet  than  is  Swinburne,  be- 
cause truer  to  the  purest  instincts  of  the  soul;  and  Long- 
fellow and  Bryant  are  not  truer  than  she,  unless  they  have 
made  deeper  impress  on  the  heart  of  humanity. 


LEWIS  J.  BATES. 


JN  the  pleasant  city  of  Detroit,  Mich.,  there  lives 
one  whose  songs  have  been  sung  as  widely  as 
those  of  any  other  Newspaper  Poet  in  the  coun- 
try. Sung  literally — sung  by  singers  in  homes  without 
number — for  many  of  them  have  been  wedded  to  music, 
and  are  favorites  wherever  tender  and  pure  poetic  senti- 
ment is  regarded,  as  it  should  always  be,  as  essential  in  a 
ballad  as  pleasing  melody.  One  of  these  oft-sung  songs 
is  the  waif  of  this  chapter.  It  has  been  going  the  rounds 
for  about  fifteen  years  ;  and  probably  not  one  in  a  hund- 
red of  those  editors  who  annually  give  it  out  as  "copy," 
know  it  was  written  by  a  brother  editor,  or  even  know 
the  writer's  name. 

UNDER  THE  ICE. 

Under  the  ice  the  waters  run  ; 

Under  the  ice  our  spirits  lie  ; 
The  genial  glow  of  the  summer  sun 

Shall  loosen  their  fetters  by-and-by. 
Moan  and  groan  in  thy  prison  cold, 

River  of  life — river  of  love  ; 
The  winter  is  growing  worn  and  old, 
The  frost  is  leaving  the  melting  mold, 

And  the  sun  shines  bright  above. 


20  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Under  the  ice— under  the  snow, 

Our  lives  are  bound  in  a  crystal  ring ; 
By-and-by  will  the  south  wind  blow, 

And  roses  bloom  on  the  banks  of  spring. 
'  Moan  and  groan  in  thy  fetters  strong, 

River  of  life — river  of  love  ! 
The  nights  grow  short— the  days  grow  long, 
Weaker  and  weaker  the  bonds  of  wrong, 

And  the  sun  shines  bright  above. 

Under  the  ice  our  souls  are  hid ; 

Under  the  ice  our  good  deeds  grow ; 
Men  but  credit  the  wrong  we  did — 

Never  the  motive  that  lay  below. 
Moan  and  groan  in  thy  prison  cold, 

River  of  life— river  of  love  ! 
The  winter  of  life  is  growing  old, 
The  frost  is  leaving  the  melting  mold, 

And  the  sun  shines  warm  above. 

Under  the  ice  we  hide  our  wrong- 
Under  the  ice  that  has  chilled  us  through ! 

O,  that  the  friends  who  have  known  us  long 
Dare  to  doubt  we  are  good  and  true ! 

Moan  and  groan  in  thy  prison  cold, 
River  of  life — river  of  love  ! 

The  winter  is  growing  worn  and  old, 

The  roses  stir  in  the  melting  mold  ; 
We  shall  be  known  above  ! 

It  is  such  a  poem  as  nearly  every  one  will  read  ;  and 
every  one  who  reads  it  will  like  it,  though  all  might  not 
be  able  to  tell  why.  In  a  manner  just  vague  and  general 
enough  to  cover  all  individualities,  it  expresses  the  uni- 


LE  WIS  J.  BA  TES.  2 1 

versal  longing  for  fuller  recognition,  for  a  more  sunny 
atmosphere,  a  more  generous  judgment.  Each  soul  feels 
in  some  way  shut  in  from  that  free  and  glad  development 
which  seems  possible,  and  each  catches  in  the  poet's  utter- 
ance some  echo  of  its  own  unanswered  speech.  It  is  at 
once  a  complaint  and  a  rejoicing — a  complaint  over  that 
which  is  and  ought  not  to  be  ;  a  rejoicing  over  that  which 
is  not  but  is  sure  to  come.  And  in  this  it  is  strikingly 
characteristic  of  its  author.  He  has  written  much,  and 
there  is  great  diversity  manifest  in  his  choice  of  themes, 
and  in  his  lines  of  thought,  but  he  oftenest  recognizes  the 
woe  of  to-day,  and  the  want  of  to-day,  and  sings  sweetest 
and  longest  of  the  betterment  to-morrow  will  bring. 
Lewis  J.  Bates  is  peculiarly  the  poet  of  Hope.  That 
sweet  gospel  of  good  in  the  future,  his  muse  is  continu- 
ally preaching.  Blessed  are  they  who  hear,  if  so  be  they 
are  discouraged  and  doubting,  and  are  led  up  to  a 
stronger  faith  ! 

Mr.  Bates  was  born  on  the  2ist  of  September,  1832, 
in  the  Catskill  Mountain  House,  though  he  laughingly 
asserts  that  he  never  killed  a  cat  in  his  life.  His  father 
was  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  and  if  he  possessed  any  poet- 
ical tendencies  they  must  have  manifested  themselves  in 
his  choice  of  a  location  for  hotel-keeping.  His  father — 
the  grandfather  of  our  poet — was  Judge  Bates,  of  Canan- 
daigua,  a  local  politician  of  some  note,  a  fact  which  may 
account  for  Mr.  Bates'  political  affinities,  if  there  be  any- 
thing in  the  doctrine  of  *  'natural  selection,"  or  hereditary 


22  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

talent.  The  "maternal  grandfather"  was  one  or  the  quite 
celebrated  Tappan  family,  of  five  brothers,  of  whom  Ar- 
thur and  Lewis — prominent  in  the  anti-slavery  move- 
ment— were  most  widely  known. 

When  Lewis  was  two  years  old  his  parents  removed 
from  the  wild  grandness  of  the  Catskills  to  the  dull*  level 
of  Hopewell,  Ontario  county,  New  York,  where  they  lived 
six  years,  and  where  they  saw  both  prosperity  and  advers- 
ity. His  father  went  into  the  milling  business  there, 
succeeded  handsomely,  and  became  owner  of  three  flour- 
ing mills.  Then  two  of  these  were  destroyed  by  fire  with- 
in a  fortnight,  and  Mr.  Bates  was  a  poor  man.  From 
Hopewell  the  family  removed  to  Portland,  Ionia  county, 
Michigan,  and  settled  on  a  farm  in  what  was  then  an  al- 
most unbroken  wilderness.  The  father  died  in  a  few 
months,  and  the  mother  was  left  a  widow  with  seven 
children,  on  a  farm  but  partially  cleared,  in  a  new  settle- 
ment, with  no  near  relative  in  the  State  except  the  family 
of  her  husband's  brother,  left  in  the  same  sad  situation 
by  that  brother's  death  a  year  earlier. 

There  were  no  schools  about,  save  one  in  a  little  log 
hut,  a  mile  and  a-half  distant,  through  the  woods.  That 
Lewis  attended  two  or  three  winters,  and  afterward  went 
to  one  somewhat  better,  in  the  hamlet  of  Portland.  Thus 
his  early  educational  advantages  were  meager  enough. 
The  whole  family  '  'roughed  it"  for  several  years,  and  en- 
joyed few  of  the  comforts  of  life. 

On  attaining  his  twelfth  year  Lewis  went  with  his 


LEWIS  J.  BATES.  23 

grandfather  to  Akron,"  Ohio,  riding  much  of  the  distance 
in  the  saddle,  and  as  they  went  in  the  spring  when  the 
rivers  were  high  and  the  swamps  full,  and  as  bridges  were 
few  and  miles  of  '  'corduroy"  road  numerous,  the  journey 
was  one  to  be  remembered.  At  Akron  he  remained 
about  eighteen  months,  as  errand  boy  in  the  counting- 
house  of  Rattle  &  Tappan,  studied  algebra  at  odd  hours, 
and  attended  an  academy  one  term  of  eleven  weeks.  And 
this  summed  up  his  "schooling,"  with  the  exception  of 
ten  weeks  more  at  an  academy  in  Geneva. 

He  entered  a  printing  office,  then,  however — a  prac- 
tical school  which  has  graduated  many  of  our  best  schol- 
ars,— and  there  acquired  more  than  many  academic 
terms  could  have  taught  him.  Having  entered  the  Cou- 
rier office,  in  Geneva,  New  York,  as  an  apprentice,  he 
soon  got  an  inkling  of  the  printer  s  art,  and  formed  a 
liking  for  it  which  invariably  lasts.  But  he  was  not  des- 
tined to  stick  quietly  at  the  case.  Out  one  night  with 
some  older  typos,  "cooning," — which  generally  means 
stealing  fruit, — he  caught  the  small  pox  by  landing  under 
the  window  of  a  room  in  the  hotel  where  a  man  lay  ill 
of  it,  and  came  near  dying.  Meantime  his  mother  had 
re-married,  and  when  he  was  well  again  he  returned  to 
frontier  life  in  Michigan,  learned  brick-making,  then 
surveying,  and  at  last  drifted  once  more  into  a  printing 
office. 

This  was  in  1848,  and  the  office  was  that  of  The 
Eagle,  in  Grand  Rapids — a  sheet  which  was  issued  weekly 


24  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  U7HORS. 

whenever  its  proprietors  could  raise  money  enough  to 
buy  paper.  When  they  could  not  it  suspended,  we  have 
been  told,  and  they  "passed  around  the  hat."  It  is  now 
a  flourishing  and  well-to-do  daily.  In  this  office  Mr. 
Bates  first  began  to  write  for  the  press,  and  within  the 
next  decade  he  wrote  many  poems  for  The  Eagle  which 
were  widely  copied,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  name 
of  that  paper — for  editors  would  sometimes  credit — went 
furth'er  on  the  wings  of  his  rhyme  than  it  ever  did  other- 
wise. 

But  a  restless  disposition  forbade  permanency,  and 
a  year  from  the  time  he  entered  The  Eagle  office  he  was  a 
sailor  on  Lake  Michigan,  engaged  with  another  young 
man  in  running  a  coaster ;  and  in  a  year  or  two  of  such 
life  he  had  some  wild  experiences.  Two  years  subse- 
quently he  was  in  New  York  City,  sticking  type  in  the 
establishment  of  John  A.  Gray  &  Co. ,  and  thence,  in 
about  a  year,  he  went  into  the  publishing  office  of  the 
Anti-Slavery  Society,  under  the  auspices  of  Lewis  Tappan, 
and  there  came  in  contact  with  many  who  were  then  and 
afterward  celebrated.  While  there  he  became  a  regular 
poetical  contributor  to  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  at 
that  time  under  the  management  of  Mr.  Clark,  and  the 
bright  light  in  our  periodical  literature. 

In  1853  ne  returned  to  Michigan  and  The  Eagle  ; 
but  soon  changed  to  The  Enquirer,  on  which  he  took  his 
first  regular  editorial  position  as  * '  Local. "  Subsequently 
he  served  for  a  time  in  the  same  capacity  on  the  Madison, 


LE  WIS  J.  BA  TES.  25 

Wisconsin,  Journal,  and  other  papers  in  that  State  and 
Michigan,  varying  his  labors  by  work  at  the  case  and  at 
the  press.  Through  a  large  part  of  1859  ne  worked  a 
large  hand  press  four  days  and  two  nights  each  week,  re- 
gardless of  his  health,  and  a  few  months  later,  after  expos- 
ure in  the  lumber  forests,  was  prostrated  with  fever,  and 
reached  town  and  attendance  more  dead  than  alive,  after 
twelve  days  of  suffering.  Previously  in  splendid  physical 
condition,  and  skilled  in  athletic  arts — an  expert  swords- 
man, and  a  good  wrestler  and  runner — he  has  never  since 
been  strong — never  since  known  really  good  health. 

His  first  step  on  recovering  from  this  illness,  was  to 
re-enter  The  Eagle  office,  now  as  political  editor;  his 
next,  to  marry.  He  remained  with  The  Eagle  all  through 
the  war,  and  during  that  time  wrote  many  of  his  best 
lyrics,  several  of  which  were  seized  upon  by  composers 
and  sent  out  again  in  sheet-music  form,  as  "Under  the 
Ice"  had  been,  written  several  years  before. 

One  of  the  finest  of  these  lyrics  written  in  war-time, 
though  hardly  to  be  classed  as  a  war  lyric,  is  the  follow- 
ing, entitled 

BY-AND-BY. 

Under  the  snow  are  the  roses  of  June, 

Cold  in  our  bosoms  the  hopes  of  our  youth  ; 

Gone  are  the  wild  birds  that  warbled  in  tune, 

Mute  are  the  lips  that  have  pledged  us  their  truth. 

Wind  of  the  winter  night,  lonely  as  I, 

Wait  we  the  dawn  of  the  bright  by-and-by. 


2 6  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Roses  shall  bloom  again, 
Sweet  love  will  come  again  : 
It  will  be  summer  time,  by  and-by. 

Patience  and  toil  are  the  meed  of  to-day — 

Toil  without  recompense,  patience  in  vain  ; 
Darkness  and  terror  lie  thick  on  our  way, 

Our  footsteps  keep  time  with  the  angel  of  pain. 
Wind  of  the  winter  night,  far  in  the  sky, 
Watch  for  the  day-star  of  dear  by-and-by. 
Parched  lips  shall  quaff  again, 
Sad  souls  shall  laugh  again ; 
Earth  will  be  happier,  by-and-by. 

Cruel  and  cold  is  the  judgment  of  man, 

Cruel  as  winter,  and  cold  as  the  snow  ; 
But  by-and-by  will  the  deed  and  the  plan 

Be  judged  by  the  motive  that  lieth  below. 
Wail  of  the  winter  wind,  echo  cur  cry, 
Pray  for  the  dawn  of  the  sweet  by-and-by, 
When  hope  shall  spring  again  ; 
When  joy  shall  sing  again  ; 
Truth  will  be  verified,  by-and-by. 

Weary  and  heartsick  we  totter  along, 

Feeble  the  back,  though  the  burden  is  large  ; 
Broken  the  purpose,  and  hushed  is  the  song: 

Why  should  we  linger  on  life's  little  marge  ? 
Wind  of  the  winter  night,  hush  !  and  reply : 
Is  there,  oh  !  is  there  a  glad  by  and-by  ? 
Will  dark  grow  bright  again, 
Burdens  grow  light  again, 
And  faith  be  justified,  by-and  by  ? 

Dreary  and  dark  is  the  midnight  of  war, 
Distant  and  dreamy  the  triumph  of  right ; 


1  Roses  shall  bloom  again, 
Sweet,  love  will  come  again  : 
It  will  be  summer-time,  by  and  by." 


Page  26. 


LE  WIS  J.  BA  TES.  2  7 

Homes  that  are  desolate,  hearts  that  are  sore, 

Soon  shall  the  morning  star  gladden  our  sight. 
Wail  of  the  winter  wind,  so  like  a  sigh, 
Herald  the  dawn  of  the  blest  by-rmd-by. 
Freedom  shall  reign  again, 
Peace  banish  pain  again  ; 
Right  will  be  glorified,  by-and-by. 

Three  or  four  composers  married  this  to  melody,  and 
it  was  published  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  under  as 
many  different  titles.  One  edition,  with  music  by  the 
author  of  this  sketch,  was  and  is  issued  by  Mr.  Joseph  P. 
Shaw*,  Music  Publisher,  Rochester,  N.  Y. ,  and  is  known 
by  many  as  "Roses  will  Bloom  Again." 

For  the  last  nine  or  ten  years  Mr.  Bates  has  been 
upon  the  staff  of  The  Post,  Detroit,  as  political  editor. 
Though  the  surroundings  of  such  a  position  are  by  no 
means  conducive  to  poetic  sentiment,  his  keeps  as  fresh 
and  pure  as  ever,  and  though  he  writes  less,  perhaps, 
than  he  used  to,  that  which  he  writes  has  the  same  sweet- 
ness as  had  earlier  efforts.  He  yearly  writes  the  Carrier's 
Address  for  The  Post,  and  the  Job  Department  of  that 
large  printing  concern  decks  it  out  in  all  the  graces  of 
'  'the  art  preservative, "  and  the  poem  is  annually  worthy 
of  its  dress.  The  Address  proper  is  usually  supplemented 
by  a  brief  lyric,  on  the  cover's  last  page,  and  that  of  one 
year  we  copy : 

RIGHT  CAN  A F FORD  TO  WAIT. 
Sore  hearts,  from  passion  too  intense, 
And  sinews  stiff  with  pain, 


28  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Whose  faith  in  speedy  recompense 
Has  proved  once  more  in  vain, 

Though  Wrong  may  sway  the  world  to-day, 

You  hold  the  hand  of  Fate : 
Your  good  seed  grows  beneath  the  snows  : 
Right  can  afford  to  wait. 

Unwise  alike  are  cold  despair 

And  hot  and  angry  fire  ; 
His  patience  answers  eager  prayer, 
His  calmness  quick  desire  ; 

His  harvest  grows  beneath  the  snows, 

And  ripens  soon  or  late : 
Tho'  Wrong  may  sway  the  world  to-day, 
Right  can  afford  to  wait. 

Still  brightly  burning  in  the  skies, 
The  stars  of  Freedom  shine  ; 
There  is  no  zenith  for  their  rise, 
Nor  nadir  of  decline. 

Lo  !  in  our  past  how  sure,  and  fast 
Has  Progress  built  her  state  ! 
Wrong's  ancient  sway  is  weak  to-day  : 
Right  can  afford  to  wait, 

Then  let  none  harbor  groundless  fear 

Our  hope  shall  pass  away  : 

Up  !  all  who  wait  the  Promised  Year, 

And  make  that  year  to-day  ! 

The  strong  hand  still  and  earnest  will 

May  storm  the  throne  of  Fate ! 
Right  waits  for  man  to  build  her  plan  : 
God  has  no  need  to  wait. 

Mr.  Bates  is  a  perfect  master  of  versification.     Look- 


LEWIS  J.  BATES.  29 

ing  through  his  portfolio,  as  it  has  been  our  privilege  and 
pleasure  to  do  in  years  past,  one  is  surprised  at  the  mani- 
fold forms  of  verse  in  which  he  has  molded  his  thought. 
The  poems  we  have  given  show  how  accurate  is  his  versi- 
fying in  the  soberer  styles.  He  is  hardly  less  happy  in  a 
rollicking  stanza,  as  in  this  from  "This  Jolly  Round 
World": 

O  !  Old  Father  Time  grows  tender  and  mellow, 

As,  r.oving  the  round  earth,  the  sturdy  old  fellow, 

Year  in  and  year  out,  keeps  going  and  coming, 

In  winter's  wild  wrack  and  in  summer's  green  blooming ; 

And  he  very  well  knows 

That  wherever  he  goes — 
('T  is  as  plain  to  be  seen  as  his  frosty  old  nose) — 

In  each  new-broken  fetter 

He  reads,  like  a  letter, 

That  this  jolly  round  world  grows  better  and  better — 
This  jolly  round  world  grows  better  and  better. 

Also  this,  the  opening  stanza  of  a  song  entitled  ' '  The 
Master's  Gold  Year"  : 

Some  millions  of  ages  ago,  you  know, 

When  Time  was  a  jaunty  young  beau,  you  know, 

By  command  of  the  crown, 

He  was  told  to  write  down, 
In  an  almanac  needed  to  show,  you  know, 

A  statement  complete, 

Unspotted  and  neat, 
Of  the  years  yet  to  be  in  our  new  world  below. 


30  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

His  verse  fairly  sings  of  itself,  and  seems  almost  an 
inspiration  to  any  composer. 

In  the  poems  we  have  quoted  there  is  little  of  the 
imaginative  element,  yet  Mr.  Bates  is  not  without  this,  as 
some  of  his  longer  pieces,  which  we  have  not  space  for, 
well  attest.  He  would  succeed  finely  in  an  extended  de- 
scriptive effort,  if  he  would  but  make  the  attempt.  But 
his  muse  in  her  short  flights  is  mainly  sentimental  and 
semi-philosophic.  A  little  song  entitled  "Good  Luck" 
betrays  the  latter  quality.  We  quote  the  opening  stanza, 
and  the  chorus  : 

O,  once  in  each  man's  life,  at  least, 
Good  luck  knocks  at  his  door ; 
And  wit  to  seize  the  flitting  guest 

Need  never  hunger  more. 
But  while  the  loitering  idler  waits 

Good  luck  beside  his  fire, 
The  bold  heart  storms  at  fortune's  gates, 
And  conquers  its  desire. 

For  here  's  the  secret  that  doth  lurk 

In  every  grand  life's  plan  : 
His  work,  it  was  a  man's  work  ; 
He  did  it  like  a  man. 

Blessed  are  they  who  can  sing  songs  in  the  night ! 
For  nights  do  come,  to  us  all ;  and  those  who  sing  in- 
stead of  sighing  when  shadows  wait,  shall  earlier  see  the 
morning.  For  such  as  have  no  melody  in  their  hearts, 
this  bit  of  cheer  was  breathed  : 


LEWIS  y.  BATES. 

SOME  SlYEE  T  DA  Y. 

I. 
In  every  life  some  rain  must  beat  ; 

In  every  life  some  sunshine  is  ; 
Some  early  find  their  share  of  sweet  ; 

Some,  longing,  wait  their  bliss. 
Then,  sweet,  forget  our  wasted  years, 

And  mourn  no  more  our  vanished  May  ; 
Be  patient  till  our  joy  appears, 
Our  turn  will  come  some  day. 
Some  day  all  our  birds  shall  sing, 
Some  day  all  our  joy-bells  ring, 
Some  day  bloom  our  promised  spring, 
Some  day  —  some  sweet  day. 

II. 

Oh,  vain  are  sighs  for  sorrows  past, 
And  vain  are  fears  for  future  ill, 
While  plighted  troth  holds  sure  and  fast, 

And  love  is  faithful  still. 
Then  envy  not  the  happy  hearts 

Whose  crowns  of  bliss  do  not  delay  ; 
The  joy  late  coming  late  departs, 
And  ours  will  longer  stay. 

Some  day  all  our  grain  shall  grow, 
Some  day  all  our  roses  blow, 
Some  day,  sweet,  our  souls  shall  glow  ; 
Some  day  —  some  sweet  day. 

III. 
The  flower  of  summer's  sun  and  rain 

Is  sure  to  droop  in  summer's  glow  ; 
The  year's  best  gift  of  golden  grain 

Lies  green  beneath  the  snow, 


31 


32  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Then  doubt  no  more  our  lives  shall  bloom, 

For  sorrow  cannot  always  stay  ; 
And  for  the  happy  time  to  come 
'T  will  be  our  turn  some  day. 

Some  day  Love  shall  claim  his  own, 
Some  day  Right  ascend  his  throne, 
Some  day  hidden  Truth  be  known  ; 
Some  day — some  sweet  day. 

Half  sad  in  its  tender  soberness,  as  much  of  Mr. 
Bates'  verse  seems  to  be,  his  is  by  no  means  a  sad  nature. 
He  is  brimming  over  with  humor,  and  oftentimes  keenly 
witty.  The  comic  side  of  life  strikes  him  with  all  its 
comicality.  Those  who  remember  his  poem  on  "De- 
cember," published  in  all  the  papers  a  matter  of  fifteen 
years  ago — a  poem  whose  humor  was  broad  in  the  ex- 
treme— would  hardly  believe  the  same  hand  penned 
"Under  the  Ice,"  unless  they  realized  how  near  the  sur- 
face of  laughter  flows  ever  an  undertone  of  tears.  Many 
of  his  pointed  witticisms  sparkle  forth  brilliantly  in  The 
Post,  and  he  wastes  a  wealth  of  bon  mots  in  every-day  con- 
versation. All  poets  may  not  be  possessed  of  warm 
geniality,  but  those  of  our  acquaintance  offer  no  excep- 
tion to  what  we  would  fain  believe  a  general  rule  ;  and, 
in  the  main,  those  whose  productions  seem  saddest,  in 
the  tenderest  minor  key,  are  those  whose  geniality  is  most 
warm  and  contagious,  who  appear  overflowing  with  happy 
fancies  and  real  light-heartedness. 

In  person  Mr.  Bates  is  somewhat  slight,  of  about 
medium  height,  with  bright,  laughing  eyes  looking  out 


LEWIS  J.  BATES.  2$ 

from  under  a  broad  forehead,  nearly  naked  of  ' '  thatch. " 
He  is  of  an  intensely  active,  nervous  organization,  as 
might  be  inferred  from  the  sketch  of  his  life,  and  has 
crowded  more  varied  experience  and  hard  work  into  forty 
years  than  many  men  can  boast  of.  He  writes  rapidly — 
has  written  much  in  the  way  of  sketches  and  stories,  as 
well  as  poetry ;  and  his  prose  has  a  pithy  directness  well 
fitted  for  journalistic  effect.  He  has  conquered  success 
as  a  political  writer ;  but  it  is  as  the  poet  that  we  like  best 
to  regard  him,  and  especially  as  the  poet  of  Hope.  And 
as  such  we  cannot  more  fitly  take  leave  of  him  than  by 
quoting  this  hopeful  poem  : 

OUR  BETTER  DA  Y. 

Still  sore  with  struggle,  faint  and  worn, 

We  wait  the  better  day, 
The  breath  of  whose  celestial  morn 

Shall  charm  our  pain  away  ; 
Our  night  seems  long,  and  dark  with  wrong 

And  evil  life's  whole  sum  ; 
But  God's  time  is  our  promised  time, 

And  that  is  sure  to  come. 

O  !  soul  that  struggles  and  that  cries, 

Sore  tempted  to  despair, 
And  reads  no  answer  in  the  skies 

To  labor  or  to  prayer : 
Though  night  is  old,  and  dark,  and  cold, 

And  doubting  lips  are  dumb, 
Yet  God's  day  is  your  triumph  day, 

And  that  is  sure  to  come. 

3 


34  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UJHORS. 

O  !  day  long  looked  for,  oft  foretold, 

Best  theme  of  prayer  and  song, 
When  Truth  and  Right  shall  judgment  hold. 

In  triumph  over  Wrong  ! 
Young  lives  wear  out  'twixt  hope  and  doubt, 

Young  hearts  grow  cold  and  numb ; 
But  God's  day  is  our  promised  day, 

And  that  is  sure  to  come. 

How  many  times,  'mid  icy  chills, 

We  've  dreamed  of  summer  blooms, 
And  woke  to  snow  on  wintry  hills, 

And  frost  on  early  tombs  ; 
Our  birds  of  song  are  silent  long, 

The  leafless  groves  are  dumb  ; 
But  God's  time  is  our  summer  time, 

And  that  is  sure  to  come. 

We  waited — not  with  folded  hands — 

To  gather  fortune's  grain  ; 
With  patient  toil  we  plowed  our  lands, 

And  scattered  seed  like  rain  ; 
The  year  goes  wrong,  and  tares  grow  strong, 

Hope  starves  without  a  crumb ; 
But  God's  time  is  our  harvest  time, 

And  that  is  sure  to  come. 


BENJAMIN  F.  TAYLOR. 

[ECTURE  audiences,  in  many  sections  of  the 
Middle  and  Western  States,  know  well  a  form 
of  medium  height,  rather  heavier  than  the  aver- 
age, surmounted  by  a  large  head  set  squarely  on  broad 
shoulders,  the  head  lightly  covered  with  iron-gray  hair, 
thrown  back  from  a  forehead  massive  and  intellectual, 
and  crowning  a  face  somewhat  florid,  smoothly-shaven, 
happy  in  its  smile  when  the  smile  comes,  strongly  pro- 
nounced in  its  character,  and  the  tell-tale  of  perhaps  fifty 
years  since  a  mother  first  looked  into  it  and  knew  her 
first-born.  Lecture  audiences  have  often  seen  this  form 
walking  half-timidly  forward  to  the  speaker's  desk, — half- 
timidly,  as  though  afraid  to  meet  the  gaze  of  hundreds ; 
half -hurriedly,  as  though  in  haste  to  be  over  with  a 
dreaded  duty — have  often  listened  to  the  rare  poetry  of 
prose  to  which  the  form  gave  utterance,  in  speech  quick 
and  impetuous  as  the  fancy  it  syllabled,  and  have  often 
gone  home  wondering  how  a  man  could  crowd  so  much 
of  quaint  conceit,  of  beautiful  simile,  of  brilliant  imagin- 
ation, of  pleasant  humor,  of  tender  sentiment  and  fine 
word  painting,  into  an  hour's  discourse.  The  name  of 
this  form  is  Benjamin  F,  Taylor. 


36  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

In  one  of  his  lectures, — that  on  "Motive  Powers," — 
Mr.  Taylor  has  given  the  story  of  what  is  probably  the 
most  widely  known  waif  in  the  language — a  little  poem 
which  every  paper  in  the  country  has  printed, — and  many 
of  them  a  score  of  times — which  every  lover  of  poetry  has 
read  and  re-read,  which  goes  about  under  numerous 
names,  and  which  has  suggested  more  imitations,  and 
been  more  frequently  plagiarized,  than  any  other  bit  of 
sentiment  with  which  we  are  acquainted. 

"Twenty  years  ago,"  the  story  runs,  "on  a  dreary 
December  evening,  I  sat  in  an  upper  room  in  the  great 
metropolis,  by  the  side  of  a  sick  girl.  Not  long  before 
I  had  pledged  to  her  all  that  a  man  can  pledge  to  his 
heart's  choice.  Now  in  her  need  I  lacked  the  means  to,, 
give  her  proper  care  and  comfort.  From  a  city  hundreds 
of  miles  away  had  come  a  demand  for  one  of  those  com- 
monly mechanical  things  known  as  New  Year's  Addresses. 
It  was  a  question  of  poetry  and  bread,  or  no  poetry  and 
no  bread.  Fifty  dollars  was  the  motive  power.  I  wrote 
the  Address  as  desired,  and  these  verses  were  part  of  it : 

THE  LONG  AGO. 

A  wonderful  stream  is  the  River  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  Tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm,  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  broader  sweep,  and  a  surge  sublime 

As  it  blends  with  the  ocean  of  Years. 

How  the  winters  are  drifting  like  flakes  of  snow  ! 
And  the  summers  like  buds  between  ; 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YL OR.  3  7 

And  the  year  in  the  sheaf— so  they  come  and  they  go 
On  the  River's  breast  with  its  ebb  and  its  flow, 
As  they  glide  in  the  shadow  and  sheen. 

There's  a  magical  isle  up  the  River  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  playing ; 
There  's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  voice  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chime, 

And  the  Junes  with  the  roses  are  staying. 

And  the  name  of  the  isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there  ; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty  and  bosoms  of  snow — 
They  are  heaps  of  dust,  but  we  loved  them  so  !  — 

There  are  trinkets,  and  tresses  of  hair. 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer : 
There  's  a  harp  unswept,  and  a  lute  without  strings, 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  rings, 

And  the  garments  that  she  used  to  wear  ! 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air ; 

And  we  sometimes  hear  through  the  turbulent  roar 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

When  the  wind  down  the  River  is  fair. 

Oh  !  remembered  for  aye  be  the  Blessed  Isle, 

All  the  days  of  our  life,  till  night ! 
When  the  evening  comes,  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyelids  are  closing  in  slumber  awhile, 

May  that  "  Greenwood  "  of  soul  be  in  sight. 

We  believe  Benjamin  F.  Taylor  was  born  at  Low- 
ville,  Lewis  county,  N.  Y. ,  where  his  father,  Prof.  Stephen 


3 8  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

W.  Taylor,  was  several  years  engaged  in  teaching.  He 
early  manifested  poetic  genius,  though  how  he  came  by 
such  inheritance  was  and  ever  has  been  a  puzzling  ques- 
tion to  all  familiar  with  his  .parentage.  His  mother  dis- 
played no  poetic  gifts,  though  she  was  one  of  those  true 
womanly  women  who  make  homelife  almost  a  poem  in 
itself — such  an  one  as  memory  holds  immortal  while 
daisies  blossom  over  her  grave, — one  whom  the  poet 
might  well  recall  as  he  did  in  "The  Child  and  the  Star"- 

0  heart  of  the  house,  my  dead  mother ! 
Give  your  boy  the  old  greeting  once  more, 

That  I  never  have  heard  from  another 
Since  Death  was  let  in  at  the  door. 

1  can  reach  up  my  hand  to  the  ceiling 

Of  the  rooms  once  the  world's  greater  part — 
Who  wonders  I  cannot  help  feeling 

They  have  narrowed  to  fit  to  my  heart ! 

His  father,  though  possessed  of  strong  intellect,  and  very 
liberal  culture,  had  nothing  whatever  of  the  poetic  in- 
stinct, and  was,  in  fact,  as  directly  the  opposite  of  our 
subject  in  character  and  habit  as  can  be  imagined.  He 
'was  mathematically  precise  in  all  things,  as  rigid  a  stick- 
ler for  discipline  in  thought  and  action  as  was  ever  known. 
He  had  literally  no  poetry  in  his  soul.  The  most  poet- 
ical features  or  events  he  would  strip  of  their  beauty,  and 
make  of  them  plain,  precise,  angular  facts.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  son  clothes  the  homeliest  hint  or  happening  in 
poetic  garb,  wraps  it  in  a  metaphor,  or  decks  it  out  with 
fancy,  until  it  fairly  blossoms  into  song. 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  39 

When  Benjamin  F.  and  his  brother  Alfred  were  half- 
grown  lads,  Prof.  Taylor  removed  to  Hamilton,  Madison 
county,  N.  Y.,  to  become  Principal  of  the  Preparatory 
Department  of  the  institution  now  known  as  Madison 
University,  of  which  institution  he  ultimately  became 
President,  and  in  which  his  sons  were  mainly  educated. 
As  a  scholar  Benjamin  F.  was  not  remarkable.  His 
mental  make-up  was  not  that  of  the  close,  plodding  stu- 
dent. He  was  discursive,  and  liked  rambling  off  into 
new  paths,  as  was  shown  by  his  preparing  a  little  volume, 
while  in  college,  entitled  " The  Attractions  of  Language," 
his  first  venture  in  authorship.  It  was  brought  out  in 
Hamilton,  and  much  of  it  was  written  under  pressure  of 
the  printer,  the  author's  characteristic  of  procrastination 
in  literary  work  cropping  out  at  the  very  beginning. 

His  earliest  poetical  effort  of  any  moment  was,  if  we 
mistake  not,  a  long  poem  written  for  delivery  before  some 
society,  in  which  occurred  this  original  and  fanciful  ex- 
planation of  the  Northern  Lights  : 

To  claim  the  Arctic  came  the  sun, 
With  banners  of  the  burning  zone. 
Unrolled  upon  their  airy  spars, 
They  froze  beneath  the  light  of  stars  ; 
And  there  they  float,  those  streamers  old, 
Those  Northern  Lights,  forever  cold  ! 

After  leaving  college  Mr.  Taylor  taught  school 
awhile,  in  various  places  in  Central  New  York ;  married, 
at  length ;  tried  literature  in  New  York,  but  with  poor 


40  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

success;  and  finally  wei.t  to  Chicago  and  became  con- 
nected with  The  Evening  Journal,  of  that  city,  as  literary 
editor  and  contributor.  His  short,  suggestive,  often 
quaint  and  pithy  articles  in  that  paper  soon  attracted  at- 
tention, and  some  of  them  were  widely  copied  by  the 
Press.  They  were  presently  collected  in  a  modest  volume 
entitled  ''January  and  June,"  which  has  more  genuine 
poetry  of  thought  in  its  two  hundred  and  odd  pages  than 
can  be  found  anywhere  else  in  the  same  space,  to  our 
knowledge.  In  that  volume  appears  what  is  probably 
the  best  thing  Mr.  Taylor  ever  wrote — a  poem  only  less 
generally  known  and  admired  than  the  waif  before  spok- 
en of,  and  having  more  artistic  merit  than  any  other  from 
Mr.  T.'s  pen.  It  closes  a  little  raphsody  on  "Bugs  and 
Beauties,"  in  which  the  real  theme  is  Nature's  coloring. 
Speaking  of  what  glory-tints  the  evening  shqws,  in  the 
midst  of  description  our  writer  glides  away  into  memory: 

' '  On  such  a  night,  in  such  a  June,  who  has  not  sat, 
side  by  side,  with  somebody  for  all  the  world  like  'Jenny 
June'  ?  May  be  it  was  years  ago  ;  but  it  was  some  time. 
May  be  you  had  quite  forgotten  it ;  but  you  will  be  the 
better  for  remembering.  May  be  she  has  'gone  on  be- 
fore/ where  it  is  June  all  the  year  long,  a.nd  never  Janu- 
ary at  all ;  but  God  forbid !  There  it  was,  and  then  it 
was,  and  thus  it  was  : 

THE  BE  A  UTIFUL  RIVER. 

Like  a  foundling  in  slumber  the  Summer-day  lay, 
On  the  crimsoning  threshold  of  Even, 


;  Like  a  foundling  in  slumber  the  summer-day  lay 
On  the  crimsoning  threshold  of  Even." 


Pag e  40. 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  42 

And  I  thought  that  the  glow  from  the  azure-arched  way 
Was  a  glimpse  of  the  coming  of  Heaven. 

There  together  we  sat  by  the  beautiful  stream  ; 

We  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  love  and  to  dream 
In  the  days  that  have  gone  on  before. 

These  are  not  the  same  days,  though  they  bear  the  same 

name 
With  the  ones  I  shall  welcome  no  more. 

But  it  may  be  the  angels  are  culling  them  o'er, 

For  a  Sabbath  and  Summer  forever, 
When  the  years  shall  forget  the  Decembers  they  wore, 

And  the  shroud  shall  be  woven,  no,  never  ! 
In  a  twilight  like  that,  Jenny  June  for  a  bride, 
Oh  !  what  more  of  the  world  could  one  wish  for  beside, 

As  we  gazed  on  the  river  unrolled, 
Till  we  heard,  or  we  fancied,  its  musical  tide, 

As  it  flowed  through  the  gateway  of  gold. 

"Jenny  June,"  then  I  said,  "let  us  linger  no  more 

On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river ; 
Let  the  boat  be  unmoored,  and  be  muffled  the  oar, 

And  we  '11  steal  into  heaven  together. 
If  the  angel  on  duty  our  coming  descries, 
You  have  nothing  to  do  but  throw  off  the  disguise 

That  you  wore  when  you  wandered  with  me, 
And  the  sentry  shall  say  '  Welcome  back  to  the  skies, 

We  have  long  been  awaiting  for  thee.'  " 

Oh  !  how  sweetly  she  spoke  ere  she  uttered  a  word, 
With  that  blush  partly  hers,  partly  Even's  ; 

And  that  tone  like  the  dream  of  a  song  we  once  heard, 
As  she  whispered,  "  That  way  is  not  heaven's  ; 

For  the  river  that  runs  by  the  realms  of  the  blest 


42  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Has  no  song  on  its  ripple,  no  star  on  its  breast — 

Oh  !  that  river  is  nothing  like  this  ! 
For  it  glides  on  in  shadow,  beyond  the  world's  west, 

Till  it  breaks  into  beauty  and  bliss  ! " 

I  am  lingering  yet,  but  I  linger  alone, 

'    On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  ; 
'T  is  the  twin  of  that  day,  but  the  wave  where  it  shone 
Bears  the  willow  tree's  shadow  forever ! 

In  the  volume  named,  there  are  several  fragments  of 
verse,  in  each  of  which  some  beautiful  thought  shines 
out,  and  half-a-dozen  poems  grown  to  the  dignity  of  a 
name  and  meriting  a  reprint  here  did  space  permit.  Of 
the  fragments,  here  is  one  about  the  dawning  of  Liber- 
ty's Day,  which  has  the  real  lyric  ring : 

Oh  !  wild  was  that  dawning  !     No  welcome  of  words 

No  star  to  foretell  it — no  warbling  of  birds — 

No  fading  of  shadows — no  murmur  of  rills — 

No  flashing  of  pinions — no  flushing  of  hills ; 

But  the  day  broke  in  thunder  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea, 

And  from  cloud  and  from  shroud  rang  the  song  of  the  Free. 

Oh  !  that  song  of  wrought-iron  no  bard  could  have  made, 

With  its  surging  of  banner  and  gleaming  of  blade  ; 

With  its  column  of  cloud  and  its  pillar  of  flame, 

And  the  clods  'neath  the  dead  turned  the  color  of  fame  ! 

Here  is  another,  which  pictures  the  going  away  of  a 
loved  one,  never  to  return  : 

The  sky  was  all  beauty,  the  world  was  all  bliss — 
Oh  !  who  would  not  pray  for  an  ending  like  this  ? 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  43 

So  my  beautiful  May  passed  away  from  life's  even  ; 
So  the  blush  of  her  being  was  blended  with  heaven ; 
So  the  bird  of  my  bosom  fluttered  up  to  the  dawn — 
A  window  was  opened — my  darling  was  gone ! 
A  truant  from  time,  from  tears  and  from  sin, 
For  the  angel  on  watch  took  the  wanderer  in. 

Of  the  full-fledged  poems,  one  is  familiar  to  school- 
boys, from  often  finding  place  in  school -readers,  and  is 
frequently  brought  into  use  for  purposes  of  declamation. 
Barring  some  faults  of  rhythm,  its  lyrical  effect  is  very  fine. 
It  sings  of  our  national  banner,  and  is  entitled 

GOD  BLESS  OUR  STARS  FOREVER. 

"  God  bless  our  Stars  forever  ! " 

Thus  the  Angels  sang  sublime, 
When  round  God's  forges  fluttered  fast 

The  sparks  of  starry  Time  ! 
When  they  fanned  them  with  their  pinions, 

Till  they  kindled  into  day, 
And  revealed  Creation's  bosom 

Where  the  infant  Eden  lay. 

"  God  bless  our  stars  forever !" 

Thus  they  sang,  the  seers  of  old, 
When  they  beckoned  to  the  morning 

Through  the  Future's  misty  fold  ; 
When  they  waved  the  wand  of  wonder — 

When  they  breathed  the  magic  word^- 
And  the  pulses'  golden  glimmer 

Showed  the  waking  Granite  heard. 

"  God  bless  our  stars  forever  ! " 
'  T  is  the  burden  of  the  song, 


44  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Where  the  sail  through  hollow  midnight 

Is  flickering  along  ; 
When  a  ribbon  of  blue  Heaven 

Is  a-gleaming  through  the  clouds, 
With  a  star  or  two  upon  it 

For  the  sailor  in  the  shrouds  \ 

"  God  bless  our  stars  forever ! " 

It  is  Liberty's  refrain, 
From  the  snows  of  wild  Nevada 

To  the  sounding  woods  of  Maine  ; 
Where  the  green  Multnomah  wanders, 

Where  the  Alabama  rests — 
Where  the  Thunder  shakes  his  turbans 

Over  Allegheny's  crests. 


Oh !  it  waved  above  the  Pilgrims 

On  the  pinions  of  their  prayer ; 
Oh  !  it  billowed  o'er  the  battle 

On  the  surges  of  the  air  ; 
Oh  !  the  stars  have  risen  in  it 

Till  the  Eagle  waits  the  sun, 
And  Freedom  from  her  mountain  watch 

Has  counted  "  Thirty-one." 

When  the  weary  years  are  halting, 

In  the  mighty  march  of  Time, 
And  no  New  ones  throng  the  threshold 

Of  its  corridors  sublime  ; 
When  the  clarion  call  "  Close  up  ! " 

Rings  along  the  line  no  more, 
Then  adieu,  thou  Blessed  Banner, 

Then  adieu,  and  not  before  ! 


BENJAMIN  F.   TAYLOR.  45 

We  have  not  room  for  the  entire  poem,  but  its  spirit 
can  be  caught  from  these  stanzas,  which  are  the  best. 
From  a  poem  of  some  length,  entitled  "Broken  Memo- 
ries in  Broken  Rhymes/'  inscribed  to  his  brother  Alfred, 
we  make  this  extract : 

Oh  !  they  tell  us  of  the  future,  of  purer  lives,  and  perfect 

men, 
But  I  should  n't  wonder,  brother,  we  were  nearer  Heaven 

then  ; 
If  by  life's  wild  tempest  driven,  that  sweet  port  we  Ve 

/drifted  past, 
Oh !  se^d  a  pilot,  gentle  Heaven,  to  bring  us  back  at  last ! 

From'  home  to  home,  my  brother  !     Oh  !  how  breathless 

were  the  bliss, 

To  be  the  boys  together  there — in  that  world  as  in  this ! 
Methought  I  heard  a  hail,  brother,  and  it  syllabled  my 

name  ; 
Oh  !  ship  your  oar  a  moment,  let  us  listen  whence  it  came. 

There  away,  like  moonlight  breaking,  something  dawn- 
ing through  the  dark ! 

Now  the  shadow  shape  is  taking, — sail  of  silver !  silver 
barque ! 

In  the  bow  there  stands  an  angel,  and  a  cherub  by  her 
side  ; 

And  that  cherub,  trust  me,  brother,  is  the  little  boy  that 
died. 

Angel  ?     No  !    But  wife  and  woman  ;  she  that  looked  me 

into  love, 
While  below  she  Iweetly  waited  for  her  wings,  and  went 

above. 


4 6  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Had    I   seen   through  her  disguising,   could    I  so  have 

loved  and  mourned  ? 
Oh !  that  loving,  and  that  weeping,  would  have  been  to 

worship  turned. 

As  a  maiden  at  her  window,  watches  Love's  pale  planet 

rise, 
So  my  Mary's  soul  was  watching,  ever  watching,  at  her 

eyes; 
As  that  maiden,  footsteps  hearing,   from  the  darkened 

window  flying, 
So  some  angel,  earthward  nearing,  lured  my   Mary  into 

dying ! 

Mr.  Taylor  was  called  into  the  lecture  field  when 
lectures  first  began  to  be  popular,  and  soon  became  a  fa- 
vorite with  the  public.  It  was  not  any  grace  of  oratory 
which  won  him  regard,  for  as  an  orator  he  does  not  excel. 
His  rare  power  of  pleasing,  when  upon  the  rostrum,  does 
not  lie  in -address,  although  he  is  by  no  means  an  un- 
pleasant speaker.  The  charm  is  in  the  thought,  not  in 
the  style  of  its  utterance.  He  reads  his  lectures  at  a 
galloping  rate,  with  little  regard  for  elocutionary  effect, 
hardly  pauses  to  take  breath,  and  scarcely  gives  oppor- 
tunity for  proffered  applause.  Simile,  metaphor,  senti- 
ment, roll  off  his  tongue  in  such  quick  succession  that 
one  has  barely  time  to  realize  the  beauty  of  each ;  and 
audiences  go  away  in  a  daze  of  splendid  rhetoric,  unable 
to  recall  half  the  beauties  of  thought  with  which  the  hour 
has  overflowed, — not  vastly  instructed,  perhaps,  but  with 
a  very  satisfying  memory  of  the  hour  and  the  man. 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  47 

We  doubt  if  there  lives  another,  accustomed  to  pub- 
lic appearance,  who  is  so  keenly  sensitive  with  regard  to 
it  as  is  Benjamin  F.  Taylor.  He  is  almost  morbidly  sen- 
sitive, indeed,  and  suffers  from  his  sensitiveness  to  a  de- 
gree that  would  surprise  phlegmatic  people.  His  mood 
is  as  variable  as  the  mercury  in  a  barometer,  and  goes  up 
or  down  in  sympathy  with  the  atmosphere  of  circumstance 
and  occasion.  He  can  never  get  over  what  is  known 
among  speakers  as  stage  fright,  and  has  been  known  ut- 
terly to  refuse  giving  his  lecture,  at  the  last  moment, 
simply  because  his  mood  had  suddenly  sunk,  and  over- 
apprehension  had  taken  undue  hold  upon  him. 

Mr.  Taylor  is  strongly  patriotic.  When  war  came, 
his  sympathies  were  all  with  ' '  the  Boys  in  Blue. "  Leav- 
ing his  quiet  literary  labor  in  The  Journal  office,  aban- 
doning the  lecture  field,  he  went  with  the  soldiers  of  the 
West  as  their  enthusiastic  chronicler.  In  his  army  cor- 
respondence people  were  given  the  finest  literature  of  the 
time.  No  other  letters  from  the  front  so  perfectly  pho- 
tographed army  life,  in  all  its  varied  features.  No  other 
pictures  of  war's  sorrows  and  successes  were  so  vivid,  so 
intensely  real,  as  were  his.  He  went  with  the  Army  of 
the  Cumberland,  and  saw  the  battles  of  Mission  Ridge 
and  Lookout  Mountain.  How  the  glory  of  loyal  en- 
deavor lit  up  his  description  of  those  memorable  days  ! 
Every  sentence  was  eloquent.  In  the  graphic  lines  he 
drew,  one  could  see  the  whole  panorama  of  battle  unfold. 
The  charge,  the  steady  onset,  the  thundering  cannonade, 


4 8  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

the  roll  of  musketry,  the  brave  daring,  the  magnificent 
victory — all  were  there.  No  finer  descriptive  writing  was 
ever  done,  than  Mr.  Taylor  did  in  the  camp  of  that  suc- 
cessful army  whose  courage  and  accomplishments  he 
eulogized  so  well. 

Back  again  in  ways  of  peace,  he  told  the  story  of 
Mission  Ridge  and  Lookout  Mountain  to  delighted  audi- 
ences, east  and  west,  and  finally  embodied  it  in  a  volume 
bearing  that  title,  which  merits  lasting  place  among  the 
records  of  war.  Its  pictures  of  army  life  are  well  worth 
preserving,  while  its  narrative  of  victorious  battling  can 
not  be  surpassed. 

Mr.  Taylor  is  a  perfect  artist  in  words.  He  picks 
them  out,  and  uses  them,  with  an  exquisite  regard  for 
every  shade  of  meaning.  Perhaps  this  characteristic  is 
even  more  apparent  in  his  prose  than  in  his  poetry.  His 
thought  is  a  veritable  epicure  in  the  choice  of  syllables  ; 
there  seems  no  effort  in  it  all ;  the  marvelous  wealth  and 
fitness  of  syllabic  expression  is  so  natural  you  but  half 
appreciate  it,  at  the  first.  His  fancy  is  quick  as  the  light- 
ning, airy  and  delicate  as  gossamer ;  his  imagination  runs 
free  as  the  wind  flies,  and  on  its  rhythmic  feet  wanders  at 
will  over  all  the  fields  of  thought.  Between  his  luxuri- 
ous taste  for  words,  his  rare  appreciation  of  syllabic  mean- 
ing, his  swift  fancy  and  his  lively  imagination,  he  would 
make  poetry  of  the  dictionary  itself.  In  the  commonest 
and  most  matter-of-fact  things  he  finds  poetic  hints  and 
forms.  Ordinary  people  would  see  little  poetical  in  a 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  49 

comet,  yet  hear  him  sing  of  one,  after  naming  it 

THE  NEW  CRAFT  IN  THE  OFFING. 

'T  was  a  beautiful  night  on  a  beautiful  deep, 
And  the  man  at  the  helm  had  just  fallen  asleep, 
And  the  watch  on  the  deck,  with  his  head  on  his  breast, 
Was  beginning  to  dream  that  another's  it  pressed, 
When  the  look-out  aloft  cried,  "A  sail !  ho  !  a  sail !" 
And  the  question  and  answer  went  rattling  like  hail : 
"A  sail !  ho  !  a  sail !"      "Where  away?"      "  No'th-no'th- 

west  ! " 
"  Make  her  out  ?  "     "  No,  your  honor  ! " — the  din  drowned 

the  rest. 

There,  indeed,  is  the  stranger,  the  first  in  these  seas, 
Yet  she  drives  boldly  on,  in  the  teeth  of  the  breeze — 
Now  her  bows  to  the  breakers  she  steadily  turns, 
Oh  !  how  brightly  the  light  of  her  binnacle  burns  ! 
Not  a  signal  for  Saturn  this  Rover  has  given, 
No  salute  for  our  Venus,  the  flag-star  of  heaven ; 
Not  a  rag  or  a  ribbon  adorning  her  spars, 
She  has  saucily  sailed  by  the  red  planet  Mars  ; 
She  has  "  doubled,"  triumphant,  the  Cape  of  the  Sun, 
And  the  sentinel  stars,  without  firing  a  gun  ; 
Now,  a  flag  at  the  fore  and  the  mizzen  unfurled, 
She  is  bearing  right  gallantly  down  on  the  world ! 
"  Helm  a-port !"    "  Show  a  light !  she  will  run  us  aground  !" 
"Fire  a  gun!"     "Bring  her  to!"     "Sail  ahoy!  —  whither 
bound?" 

Avast  there  !  ye  lubbers  !     Leave  the  rudder  alone  ; 
'T  is  a  craft  "in  commission" — the  Admiral's  own  ; 
And  she  sails  with  sealed  orders,  unopened  as  yet, 
Though  her  anchors  she  weighed  before  Lucifer  set  ! 
4 


50  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHQRS. 

Ah !  she  sails  by  a  chart  no  draughtsman  could  make, 
Where  each  cloud  that  can  trail,  and  each  wave  that  can 

break  , 

Where  each  planet  is  cruising,  each  star  is  at  rest, 
With  its  anchor  "  let  go"  in  the  blue  of  the  Blest  ; 
Where  that  sparkling  flotilla,  the  Asteroids,  lie, 
Where  the  scarf  of  red  morning  is  flung  on  the  sky  ; 
Where  the  breath  of  the  sparrow  is  staining  the  air — 
On  the  chart  that  she  bears,  you  will  find  them  all  there  ! 
Let  her  pass  on  in  peace  to  the  port  whence  she  came, 
With  her  trackings  of  fire,  and  her  streamers  of  flame  ! 

This  poem  appeared  soon  after  the  great  comet  of 
1858  blazed  forth,  and  went  the  rounds.  Another,  on  a 
common-place  theme,  is  almost  as  much  a  waif  as  "The 
Long  Ago,"  or  "The  Beautiful  River/'  for  like  those  it 
continually  goes  around  in  newspaper  columns  uncredit- 
ed.  It  is  about 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  CHOIR. 
I  have  fancied,  sometimes,  the  Bethel -bent  beam 
That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  patriarch's  dream, 
Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness  rest, 
From  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  blue  of  the  Blest, 
And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with  us  here, 
"Old  Hundred,"  and  "Corinth,"  and  "China,"  and  "Mear." 
All  the  hearts  are  not  dead,  not  under  the  sod, 
That  those  breaths  can  blow  open  to  Heaven  and  God  ! 
Ah  I  "  Silver  Street"  leads  by  a  bright,  golden  i-oad — 
O  !  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  flowed — 
But  to  those  sweet  human  psalms  in  the  old  -  fashioned 

choir, 
To  the  girls  that  sang  alto,  the  girls  that  sang  air  ! 


BENJAMIN  F.   TAYLOR.  51 

1  Let  us  sing  to  God's  praise,"  the  minister  said, 

All  the  psalm  books  at  once  fluttered  open  at  "York," 
Sunned  their  long  dotted  wings  in  the  words  that  he  read, 
While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just  ahead, 

And  politely  picked  out  the  key-note  with  a  fork, 
And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling  along 
At  the  heels  of  the  girls  in  the  rear  of  the  song. 

I  need  not  a  wing — bid  no  genii  come, 

With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabian  loom, 

To  bear  me  again  up  the  River  of  Time, 

When  the  world  was  in  rhythm,  and  life  was  its  rhyme  ; 

Where  the .  streams  of  the  year  flowed  so  noiseless  and 

narrow, 

That  across  them  there  floated  the  song  of  a  sparrow  ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me  there, 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old  village  choir, 
When  clear  of  the  floor  my  feet  slowly  swung, 
And  timed  the  sweet  praise  of  the  songs  as  they  sung, 
Till  the  glory  aslant  of  the  afternoon  sun 
Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God's  temple  begun  ! 

You  may  smile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Deacon  Brown, 
Who  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the  tune  down  ; 
And  the  dear  sister  Green,  with  more  goodness  than 

grace, 

Rose  and  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood  in  her  place, 
And  where  "  Coronation  "  exftltingly  flows, 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tips  of  her  toes  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  went  with  their  song, 
Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together  belong  ; 
O,  be  lifted,  ye  gates  !     Let  me  hear  them  again — 
Blessed  song,  blessed  Sabbath,  forever,  amen  ! 


52  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

We  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Taylor  as  an  artist  in  words. 
In  prose  or  verse  he  paints  a  picture  as  few  other  artists 
can,  with  a  grace  of  touch  and  a  vividness  of  color  espe- 
cially his  own.  Here  is  one  of  his  snow  scenes,  from 

A   WINTER  PSALM. 

As  softly  as  on  mountain  air  beatitudes  were  shed, 
As  gently  as  the  lilies  bud  among  the  words  He  said, 
So  did  the  dear  old  Mountains  lay  the  sparkling  winter 

down 
Upon  the  poor  dumb  bosom  of  a  world  so  bare  and 

brown — 

So  noiselessly  and  silently,  such  radiance  and  rest  ! 
As  if  a  snowy  wing  should  fold  upon  a  sparrow's  breast. 
Far  thro'  the  dim  uncertain  air,  as  still  as  asters  blow, 
The  downy  drowsy  feet  untold  tread  out  the  world  we 

know ;      «, 
Upon  the  pine's  green  fingers  set,  flake  after  flake  they 

land, 

And  flicker  with  a  feeble'  light,  amid  the  shadowy  band  ; 
Upon  the  meadows  brorvcl  and  brown  where  maids  and 

mowers  sung  ; 

Upon  the  meadows  gay  with  gold  the  dandelions  flung ; 
Upon  the  farmyard's  homely  realm,  on  ricks  and  rugged 

bars, 
Till  riven   oak  and  strawy  heap  were  domes  and   silver 

spars  ; 

The  cottage  was  an  eastern  dream  with  alabaster  eaves  ; 
And  lilacs  growing  round  about  with  diamonds  for  leaves  ; 
The  well-sweep  gray  above  the  roof  a  silver  accent  stood, 
And  silver  willows  wept  their  way  to  meet  a  silver  wood  ; 


BENJAMIN  F.  TA  YLOR.  53 

The  russet  groves  had  blossomed  white  and  budded  full 
with  stars, 

The  fences  were  in  uniform,  the  gate-posts  were  hussars ; 

The  chimneys  were  in  turbans  all,  with  plumes  of  crimson 
smoke, 

And  the  costly  breaths  were  silver  when  the  laughing  chil- 
dren spoke  ; 

And  gem  and  jewel  everywhei-e  along  the  tethers  strung 

Where  mantling  roses  once  had  climbed  and  morning 
glories  swung. 

So  through  the  dim,  uncertain  air,  as  still  as  asters  blow, 

The  downy  drowsy  feet  untold  tread  out  the  world  we 
know. 

In  War  Time,  1863,  Mr.  Taylor  penned  a  brief  lyric 
entitled  "The  Gospel  of  the  Oak,"  and  one  may  look 
long  to  find  another  bit  of  description  so  fine  as  this 
opening  sonnet : 

Up  to  the  sun,  magnificently  near, 

The  Lord  did  build  a  Californian  oak, 
And  took  no  Sabbath  to  the  thousandth  year, 

But  builded  on  until  it  bravely  broke 
Into  that  realm  wherein  the  morning  light 
Walks  to  and  fro  upon  the  top  of  night ! 
Around  that  splendid  shaft  no  hammers  rang, 
Nor  giants  wrought,  nor  truant  angels  sang, 
But  gentle  winds  and  painted  birds  did  bear 
Its  corner-stones  of  glory  through  the  air  ; 
Grand  volumes  green  rolled  up  like  cloudy  weather, 
And  birds  and  stars  went  in  and  out  together  ; 
When  Day  on  errands  from  the  Lord  came  down, 
It  stepped  from  Heaven  to  that  leafy  crown  ! 


54  '  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Some  of  Mr.  Taylor's  contributions  to  Scribner's 
Monthly,  within  the  past  two  years,  have  been  heritable 
gems  of  descriptive  poesy,  and  have  found  wide  recog- 
nition. He  has  never  been  a  prolific  writer  of  verse, 
though  of  late  he  has  written  more  than  formerly.  Much 
that  he  has  penned  has  been  in  the  way  of  longish  poems, 
for  special  purposes  of  place  and  occasion ;  and  some  of 
these,  from  lack  of  careful  work,  have  failed  to  do  him 
justice.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  his  temperament  that  he 
must  labor  under  pressure  of  necessity — or  thinks  he 
must.  Is  a  lecture  to  be  written,  he  will  wait  until  only 
a  few  days  before  his  opening  engagement  for  the  season, 
and  then  dash  it  off  at  a  heat.  Is  a  poem  to  be  deliver- 
ed, likely  as  not  he  will  pencil  it  down  on  bits  of  old 
letters,  in  the  cars,  on  his  way  to  the  place  of  delivery. 

As  a  natural  consequence,  there  is  often  apparent 
lack  of  continuity  of  thought  and  idea,  in  his  longer 
poems,  as  there  is  also,  often,  in  his  lectures.  Yet  fre- 
quent reading  and  careful  search  will  always  show  that 
there  is  a  logical  connection  of  idea,  and  that  the  abrupt- 
ness is  more  seeming  than  actual.  The  fault  lies  in  a 
want  of  care  for  details,  — for  the  rounding  out  and  link- 
ing in  of  thought  and  idea,  for  the  perfection  of  rhythm, 
which  give  finish  and  symmetry.  But  even  the  severest 
critic  can  not  find  fault  with  Mr.  Taylor  long  at  a  time. 
His  rare  conceits,  his  unequaled  daintiness  of  touch,  his 
close  sympathy,  his  intense  love  for  the  human,  his  per- 
fection of  color,  his  wonderful  appreciation  of  old-time 


BENJAMIN  F.    TAYLOR.  ^ 

beauties,  his  unlooked-for  quaintness,  his  strong  origin- 
ality, put  criticism  quite  to  flight.  And  believing  with 
him,  that  song  is  everlasting,  we  join  in  the  prayer  he 
breathes  at  the  close  of  his  volume  of  "Old  Time  Pic- 
tures, "  when  speaking  of 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  ROBIN. 

The  yellow  rose  leaves  falling  down 

Pay  golden  toll  to  passing  June, 
The  robin's  breast  of  golden  brown 

Is  trembling  with  an  ancient  tune. 

The  rose  will  bloom  another  year, 
The  robin  and  his  wife  will  come, 

But  he  who  sees  may  not  be  here, 
And  he  who  sings  be  dumb. 

Thy  grace  be  mine,  oh  yellow  rose  ! 

My  heart  like  thine  its  blossoms  shed, 
Grow  fragrant  to  the  fragrant  close, 

And  sweetest  when  I  'm  dead. 

And  so  like  thee  I  '11  pay  my  way 
In  coin  that  time  can  never  rust, 

And  footsteps  sound  another  day 
Though  feet  have  turned  to  dust  ^ 

Thy  gift  be  mine,  oh  singing  bird  ! 

My  song  like  thine  round  home  and  heart ; 
To  Song,  God  never  said  the  word 
"  To  dust  return,  for  dust  thou  art  1  * 


ELIZA  O.  PEIRSON. 

|N  1869,  soon  after  Moore's  Rural  New-Yorker 
was  removed  to  New  York  City,  and  while  the 
writer  of  this  still  remained  its  Literary  Editor, 
there  came  to  our  sanctum  table  a  dainty  manuscript, 
daintily  traced  in  the  well-known  hand  of  an  occasional 
contributor.  It  was  just  a  simple  bit  of  verse,  but  such 
as  always  pleases.  It  made  a  peculiarly  pleasant  impres- 
sion on  our  mind,  indeed,  because  of  its  perfect  sim- 
plicity, its  uniqueness.  In  a  few  days  it  saw  the  light  of 
print,  and  we  knew,  with  a  sort  of  editorial  intuition, 
that  it  would  find  favor  with  our  brother  editors,  and  go 
the  rounds.  And  such  was  the  case.  Originally  pub- 
lished under  the  author's  usual  nomme  de  plume  of  "Ali- 
qua,"  within  three  weeks  we  saw  it  in  a  country  paper, 
without  any  recognition  of  authorship,  or  any  hint  of 
credit,  whatever ;  and  ever  since  then  the  poem  has  been 
as  veritable  a  waif  as  any  we  have  mentioned,  finding  a 
snug  place  in  numberless  newspaper  corners,  and  preach- 
ing its  little  sermon,  of  what  life  and  death  ought  to  be, 
to  a  large  audience.  It  has  been  included,  also,  in  sev- 
eral compilations  of  religious  rhyme,  and  has  been  re- 
peatedly quoted  in  obituary  columns,  with  special  refer- 
ence—  a  touching  memorial  of  fruitful  age.  Here  it  is  : 


5 8  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

RIPE   WHEAT. 

We  bent  to-day  o  'er  a  coffined  form, 

And  our  tears  fell  softly  down  ; 
We  looked  our  last  on  the  aged  face, 
With  its  look  of  peace,  its  patient  grace, 
And  hair  like  a  silver  crown. 

We  touched  our  own  to  the  clay-cold  hands, 

From  life's  long  labor  at  rest  ; 
And  among  the  blossoms  white  and  sweet, 
We  noted  a  bunch  of  golden  wheat, 
Clasped  close  to  the  silent  breast. 

The  blossoms  whispered  of  fadeless  bloom, 

Of  a  land  where  fall  no  tears  ; 
The  ripe  wheat  told  of  toil  and  care, 
The  patient  waiting,  the  trusting  prayer, 
The  garnered  good  of  the  years. 

We  knew  not  what  work  her  hands  had  found, 
What  rugged  places  at  her  feet ; 

What  cross  was  hers,  what  blackness  of  night ; 

We  saw  but  the  peace,  the  blossoms  white, 
And  the  bunch  of  ripened  wheat. 

As  each  goes  up  from  the  field  of  earth, 

Bearing  the  treasures  of  life, 
God  looks  for  some  gathered  grain  of  good, 
From  the  ripe  harvest  that  shining  stood, 

But  waiting  the  reaper's  knife. 

Then  labor  well,  that  in  death  you  go 

Not  only  with  blossoms  sweet, — 
Not  bent  with  doubt,  and  burdened  with  fears, 
And  dead,  dry  husks  of  the  wasted  years, — 
But  laden  with  golden  wheat, 


•ft 


ELIZA    0.  PEIRSON.  59 

There  are  more  pretentious  poems  In  Memoriam, 
but  none  that  more  beautifully  and  briefly  sum  up  the 
Mortality  and  the  Hope,  than  does  this  sum  them  up. 
We  asked  the  author  once  how  it  came  to  be  written, 
and  this  was  the  substance  of  her  reply:  "When  tell- 
ing me  of  the  death  of  a  mutual  acquaintance — a  lady 
of  lovely  character,  whose  years  had  numbered  four- 
score—  a  friend  said  :  'Among  the  white  flowers  in  her 
coffin  was  a  bunch  of  ripe  wheat,  and  I  thought  it  most 
beautiful  and  appropriate.'  I  penned  the  lines  a  few 
days  after."  It  is  thus  that  from  the  simplest  incident  or 
thought  of  to-day  a  popular  poem  springs,  to  be  read 
and  re-read  by  thousands,  on  the  many  coming  morrows. 
"Aliqua"  veils  her  identity  under  a  no??ime  de  plume 
because  in  her  sensitiveness  she  does  not  like  to  acknowl- 
edge anything  she  writes.  Yet  she  has  written  many 
essays  and  poems  of  which  no  young  writer,  or  one 
more  mature,  need  be  ashamed,  and  we  feel  warranted 
in  disclosing  her  true  personality.  "Aliqua,"  then,  is 
Mrs.  Lizzie  O.  Peirson,  a  young  married  lady  residing 
in  Newark,  Wayne  county,  N.  Y.  Her  maiden  name 
was  Crosby.  She  was  born  in  Rome,  N.  Y. ,  if  we  mis- 
take not,  where  she  passed  her  childhood,  and  where  she 
was  educated.  She  has  the  poet's  love  for  by-gone  asso- 
ciations, and  recurs  often  to  those  somewhat  monotonous 
yet  pleasant  landscapes  of  the  upper  Mohawk  valley. 

"  Of  all  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  on  memory's  wall," 


60  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

the  dearest  far,  to  her,  is  that  of  those  far-reaching  mead- 
ows, where  the  river  winds  so  quietly  between  fringing 
willows,  as  if  in  no  haste  to  wed  the  Hudson  and  go 
shimmering  off  to  the  sea.  She  early  manifested  a  taste 
for  writing,  and  it  was  when  she  was  only  eight  or  nine 
.years  old  that  some  friend  procured  the  insertion  of  one 
of  her  poetic  attemptings  in  a  local  paper.  From  that 
time  on  she  has  written  more  or  less  for  publication, 
mostly  for  The  Rural  New-Yorker  and  The  Rural  Home. 
She  took  two  or  three  prizes  for  composition,  while  at 
Rome  Academy,  and  won  the  Abbot  Gold  Medal  for  a 
poem  entitled  ' '  Gleams  of  Light " 

Mrs.  Peirson's  love  of  nature  is  strong,  to  intensity, 
and  strongly  reflective.  That  she  finds  frequent  inspira- 
tion in  field,  forest,  and  flower,  and  oftenest  sings  of 
these,  is  not  strange ;  and  that  she  catches  some  hint  of 
a  life-lesson  in  every  scene  she  views,  does  not  surprise' 
us.  What  could  be  more  natural,  to  one  of  her  mental 
cast,  looking  out  upon  November's  dreariness,  than  thus 
to  muse  on 

MIGNONETTE. 
The  garden  mourns  for  beauty  lost 

Through  all  its  walks  and  ways, 
And  winds  in  passing  hold  lament 

For  dear  dead  summer  days, 
For  faded  flowers  that  lowly  lie 

With  ghostly  leaves, — and  yet 
They  find  there  lingers  fresh  and  sweet 

Some  blooms  of  mignonette. 


ELIZA   0.  PEIRSON.  6 1 

All  brilliant  flowers  are  pale  and  dead 

And  sadly  droop  to  earth, 
While  pansies  chill  in  velvet  ro'bes 

Count  life  but  little  worth  ; 
But  in  these  dark  November  days 

That  wander  wild  and  wet, 
Our  thoughts  are  winged  to  summer  hours 

On  breath  of  mignonette. 

Along  the  garden  ways  of  life 

Droop  withered  hopes  to-day ; 
Blooms  that  we  thought  were  immortelles 

Have  faded  quite  away  ; 
But  on  the  graves  of  friendships  dead 

Some  frail  sweet  flowers  are  set, 
Whose  autumn  fragrance  thrills  the  heart 

Like  breath  of  mignonette. 

Of  a  cheerful,  sunny  disposition,  Mrs.  Peirson  is 
yet  loyal  to  the  sober  side  of  life,  and  with  faithful  affec- 
tion, and  remembrance  hallowed  by  tears,  she  can  medi- 
tate tenderly 

OVER  THE  GRAVES. 

Ermine  robes  of  the  winter's  weaving 

Jeweled  and  gilt  by  the  shining  sun  ; 
Autumn  leaves  in  their  glory  leaving 

]j,onely  trees  when  their  work  is  done  ; 
Summer  rains  in  their  quiet  weeping, 

Bending  the  daisy's  crown  of  snow, 
Fall  on  graves  in  whose  silent  keeping 

Slumber  our  loved  ones  cold  and  low. 


•62  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

* 
Tiny  fingers  of  creeping  grasses 

Weave  a  coverlet  fresh  and  fair, 
Gently  stirred  by  the  wind  that  passes 

With  low  sound  as  the  voice  of  prayer  : 
Tiny  ringers  of  creeping  mosses 

Note  the  words  on  the  marble  cold, 
Cover  the  dates  of  our  sad  losses, 

Touch  the  names  that  we  loved  of  old. 

Crickets  chirp  in  the  leafy  places, 

Honey  bees  in  the  blossoms  throng, 
Sailing  shadow  on  shadow  chases, 

Birds  encumber  the  air  with  song ; 
Ivies  clamber  over  the  crosses, 

Droop  and  cling  to  the  earthy  mold, 
Catching  sweets  that  the  lily  losses 

Down  from  her  cup  of  white  and  gold. 

Silent  and  sad  the  mighty  shadows 

Settle  over  each  mossy  mound  ; 
Sailing  fogs  from  the  marshy  meadows  ' 

Gently,  mistily  wrap  them  round  ; 
Moonbeams  bright  with  shadowy  edges 

Caught  from  the  dark  fir  trees  they  pass, 
Shimmer  and  gleam  like  silver  wedges 

Dropped  adown  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Starry  lights  in  the  heavenly  spaces 

Watch  above  in  the  solemn  night ; 
Guarding  mists  that  the  day  displaces 

Rise  on  sunbeam  ladders  of  light ; 
Bending  roses  of  summer  pressing 

Sweet  red  lips  to  the  daisy  snow, 
Murmur  ever  of  peace  and  blessing 

Over  our  loved  ones  cold  and  low  ! 


ELIZA  0.  PEIRSON.  63 

Mrs.  Peirson's  thought  is  quite  religiously  inclined, 
and  nearly  all  her  poems  are  of  a  soberly  reflective 
character.  Now  and  then  she  paints  a  picture,  but  even 
the  picture  has  in  it  something  of  moralizing.  Moral- 
izing so  pleasantly  phrased,  however,  is  very  pleasant 
reading,  especially  when  hid  in  the  guise  of 

A  SWEDISH  LEGEND. 

It  is  told  in  Swedish  story, 

'Mong  the  legends  quaint  and  old, 

How  a  priest  and  monk  were  passing 
Where  the  river  waters  rolled, 

And  were  hushed  to  silent  wonder 
At  the  music  strange  and  sweet 

That  among  the  high  rocks  echoed 
-  Yet  seemed  rising  round  their  feet. 

They  beheld  a  merman  floating 

On  the  waters  rippling  bright, 
And  his  long  hair  fell  about  him 

Like  a  flood  of  golden  light, 
While  his  lute's  sweet  music  sounded 

All  the  rocks  and  hills  among, 
And  afar  a  deep-toned  answer 

From  the  chapel  bell  was  flung. 

"  Hush,  for  shame  ! "   the  prelate  shouted — 

"  For  such  as  you  it  is  not  meet 
To  give  forth  such  luring  music 

To  delay  all  passing  feet, 
For  no  more  your  sinful  spirit 

Can  be  saved  from  endless  strife 
Than  this  worn,  dead  staff  I'm  holding 

Can  renew  its  blooming  life." 


64  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Then  a  wailing  sounded  wildly 

From  the  merman  left  alone, 
And  a  sadness  seemed  to  echo 

In  the  chapel  bell's  deep  tone, 
While  the  monks  in  fear  and  trembling, 

Looked  upon  their  angry  chief, 
For  behold  !  the  staff  he  walked  with 

Bursting  into  bud  and  leaf ! 

Awe  and  pain,  and  deep  contrition 

Crept  into  the  prelate's  heart, 
As  he  thought  how  far  and  proudly 

He  had  kept  himself  apart 
From  all  lower,  weaker  classes  ; 

Drooping  low  on  bended  knee 
Prayed  he  with  an  humbled  spirit — 

"  Teach  me  love  and  charity ! " 

Ne'er  before  that  morning  service 

Sounded  priestly  words  so  sweet, 
Never  did  the  monks  so  meekly 

Each  devout  response  repeat ; 
While  a  faint,  sweet  music  echoed 

Up  the  chapel  aisles  and  stairs, 
Chiming  softly  with  the  chanting, 

Mingling  sweetly  with  the  prayers  ! 

It  is  the  privilege  of  but  few,  always  to  stand  upon 
the  mountain-tops.  Yet  they  who  walk  the  low-lands, 
far  beneath,  at  evening  gray  or  morning  dawn,  or  through 
long  twilight  times  between,  may  see  with  Mrs.  Peirson, 
if  they  will,  the  glad 


ELIZA  O.  PEIRSON. 

.  --.     LIGHT  ON  THE  HILLS 
Light  on  the  distant  hills  ! 

While  we  in  shadow  rest, 
A  light  that  gleams  through  broken  clouds 

That  sail  from  east  to  west, 
That  break  and  move  and  drift  apart, 

Revealing  clearest  blue, 
And  silver  edges  bright  and  clear 

Where  gleams  the  sunshine  through. 

Light  on  the  distant  hills  ! 

Where  pure  on  winter  days 
The  white  snow  lies  against  the  skies  ; 

Where  autumn's  robes  of  haze 
Fall  round  her  golden  sandaled  feet, 

Where  summer  grasses  creep  ; 
O'er  which  the  years  with  dying  tears 

Pass  onward  to  their  sleep. 

Light  on  the  distant  hills  ! 

Beyond  whose  farthest  rim 
Are  loving  friends  whose  trust  and  truth 

Through  changes  grow  not  dim ; 
Are  homes  where  welcome  warm  awaits 

And  pleasures  wing  the  hours  ; 
And  graves  where  faithful  hearts  are  still 

Beneath  the  grass  and  flowers. 

Light  on  the  distant  hills  ! 

That  clearly,  calmly  rise, 
Though  weary  grow  the  youthful  feet 

And  dim  the  love-lit  eyes ; 
The  calm,  grand,  everlasting  hills, 

That  ever  changeless  stand, 


66  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Though  nations  mourn  their  ruler's  fall 
And  war  sweep  o'er  the  land. 

Light  on  the  distant  hills  ! 

The  light  of  truth  and  right ; 
The  years  sweep  on,  the  nations  move, 

And  goodness  gathers  might. 
The  winds  of  God  shall  sweep  the  clouds 

Away  across  the  sky, 
And  all  the  shades  shall  be  dispelled 

That  in  the  valleys  lie  ; 
And  though  fhese  shadows  linger  still, 

The  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
That  while  we  wait  and  work  and  pray 

The  light  shines  on  the  hills  ! 

Mrs.  Peirson's  prose  is  almost  as  poetical  as  her 
verse.  It  is  very  pure  in  expression,  very  tender  in  sen- 
timent, often,  and  evidently  the  work  of  an  introspec- 
tive mind.  If  it  most  generally  takes  on  the  character 
of  reverie,  it  is  a  refining  and  healthful  reverie,  sugges- 
tive of  self-betterment,  and  there  ought  to  be  more  of  it. 


M.  H.  COBB. 

OME  men  are  born  reformers.  Love  of  their 
fellowman,  and 'desire  for  human  betterment, 
seem  part  of  their  very  being.  Quick  to  recog- 
nizs  the  Universal  Want,  their  faith  is  strong  that  this 
Want  will  speedily  be  met.  They  will  compel  the  millen- 
nial day  in  a  lustrum,  at  the  furthest,  they  fondly  believe, 
and  in  this  belief  they  labor  on,  fainting  not,  neither  grow- 
ing weary — wondering  that  the  world  so  slowly  pro- 
gresses, perhaps,  but  confident  that  it  does  progress,  and 
full  of  hope  in  its  near  future. 

These  reformers  are  patient,  even  in  their  impa- 
tience. They  make  real  sacrifices.  They  work  with  an 
eye  single  to  improving  their  race.  Personal  advance- 
ment, selfish  interests,  go  for  naught.  Sinking  the  in- 
dividual in  the  mass,  they  aspire  only  to  a  general  good. 
In  a  rare  spirit  of  philanthropic  self-abnegation  they 
seek  solely  the  welfare  of  mankind.  If  they  remain 
poor  in  purse  it  is  small  wonder.  If  they  do  not  ulti- 
mately become  despondent  and  cynical,  the  wonder  is 
scarcely  less.  The  millennium  does  not  dawn ;  an  ideal 
manhood  does  not  gladden  the  world ;  their  labors  ap- 
pear productive  of  little  fruit.  And  the  hands  do  at  last 
tire  of  toil ;  the  gray  hairs  do  come  and  multiply ;  the 


68  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

i 

wrinkles   hint   &  accumulating  years   and  an   end   to 
doing. 

Of  this  class  of  born  reformers  is  Mr.  M.  H.  Cobb, 
now  Cashier  of  the  United  States  Mint,  in  Philadelphia, 
longtime  connected  with  the  Newspaper  Press,  and  au- 
thor of  the  following  Waif: 

1 'HE  WORLD  WOULD  BE  THE  BETTER  FOR  IT, 

If    men  cared  less  for  wealth  and  fame, 
And  less  for  battle-fields  and  glory, 
If  writ  in  human  hearts  a  name 

Seemed  better  than  in  song  or  story ; 
If  men  instead  of  nursing  pride 

Would  learn  to  hate  it  and  abhor  it, 
If  more  relied 
On  love  to  guide, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

If  men  dealt  less  in  stocks  and  lands, 

And  more  in  bonds  and  deeds  fraternal, 
If  love's  work  had  more  willing  hands 

To  link  this  world  with  the  supernal  ; 
If  men  stored  up  Love's  oil  and  wine 

And  on  bruised  human  hearts  would  pour  it, 
If  "  yours  "  and  "  mine  " 
Would  once  combine, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

if  more  would  act  the  play  of  Life, 

And  fewer  spoil  it  in  rehearsal  ; 
If  Bigotry  would  sheath  its  knife, 

Till  good  became  more  universal ; 
If  Custom,  gray  with  ages  grown, 


M.  H.  COBB.  69 

Had  fewer  blind  men  to  adore  it, — 

If  Talent  shone 

In  Truth  alone, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

If  men  were  wise  in  little  things  — 

Affecting  less  in  all  their  dealings ; 
If  hearts  had  fewer  rusted  strings 

To  isolate  their  kindred  feelings  ; 
If  men,  when  Wrcng  beats  down  the  Right, 
Would  strike  together  to  restore  it, — 
If  Right  made  Might 
In  every  fight, 
The  world  would  be  the  better  for  it. 

This  poem,  like  many  others  from  the  same  pen, 
was  begotten  of  a  strong  desire  to  make  man  better,  and 
therefore  happier.  It  is  a  development  in  rhyme  of  the 
idea  supreme  in  its  author's  mind,  but  oftener  finding 
expression  in  years  gone  by  than  now.  For  the  reform 
spirit  sometimes  appears  to  be  less  dominant  in  a  man, 
as  circumstances  hedge  him  about,  and  its  manifestations 
become  less  marked.  Mr.  Cobb  is  to-day  as  much  a  re- 
former at  heart  as  when,  twenty  years  ago,  he  penned  the 
above  waif — his  desire  for  human  betterment  is  not  less 
strong  than  it.  then  was — but  a  group  of  sunny-hearted 
girls  call  him  father,  their  noble  mother  adds  a  wrealth  of 
affection  to  his  life,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  his  love  of 
man  has  come  to  be  somewhat  specialized. 

Mr.  Cobb  was  born  on  Beech  Hill,  in  the  town  of 
Colebrook,  Litchfield  county,  Conn,,  April  2oth,  1828. 


7o 


WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


His  ancestry  were  of  the  good  stock  that  settled  Ply- 
mouth and  Saybrook — so  well-known  in  New  England 
history — and  so  he  has  a  clear  title  to  his  temperament 
and  taste,  both  of  which  are  tinged  with  the  missionary 
element,  it  seems  to  us,  and  both  of  which  impel  to 
hard  work,  while  the  former  can  bide  a  patient  waiting. 
We  have  classed  him  among  the  born  reformers.  The 
reform  spirit  was  born  with  his  new-born  manhood,  in 
manifestation.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  began  writing, 
his  first  published  efforts  being  tolerable  imitations  of 
Byron,  and  funny  parodies  of  Junius  in  a  political  way, 
which  appeared  in  the  Hartford  Times ;  but  at  twenty- 
one  he  took  to  enthusiastic  verse -making  in  behalf  of 
reform,  and  his  name  became  familiar  to  such  reform 
lovers  as  read  the  New  York  Tribune. 

Then  Jie  set  himself  about  what  he  regarded  the  real 
work  of  man's  moral  redemption;  and  he  labored  with 
rare  faithfulness.  "I  have  worked  twenty  hours  a  day," 
he  wrote  us  once,  "and  lived  on  less  than  a  dollar  a 
week,  expecting  to  see  the  world  ever  so  much  improved 
thereby.  It  was  an  amusing  dream.  Still,  the  example 
told,  and  if  human  gratitude  can  comfort  one  I  may  be 
comforted."  It  will  be  seen  that  he  had  faith.  It  will 
be  seen,  also,  that  he  measures  his  efforts  more  correctly 
than  once  he  did ;  it  is  possible  that  he  even  undervalues 
them.  Good,  faithful,  loyal  service  will  better  the  world 
somewhat — thus  much  is  sure — though  it  may  not  to 
our  knowledge  speed  millennial  glory. 


M.  H.  COBB.  7l 

Mr.  Cobb  took  to  the  politico -journalistic  field,  and 
nearly  all  his  endeavor  has  been  put  forth  therein.  Per- 
haps it  is  for  this  reason  that  his  labors  seem  to  him  less 
fruitful  than  they  should  have  been ;  for  the  field  is  large, 
and  the  really  reform  laborers  very  few.  It  is  probable 
that  politics  never  paid  him  for  all  his  doing,  inasmuch 
as  politics  never  or  seldom  pays  the  honest  reformer. 
Yet  amid  discouragements  and  d-efeats,  through  more 
than  two  decades  of  waiting  for  results,  he  has  never 
actually  lost  faith,  has  never  given  up  hope,  has  never 
grown  cynical  and  old  in  the  conflict.  His  heart  is  as 
young  as  ever,  albeit  he  no  longer  expects  immediate  re- 
turns from  work.  An  extract  from  one  of  his  letters 
will  show  his  present  state  of  mind  :  "Now  I  think  of 
man  as  he  will  be  a  few  ages  hence,  after  I  am  dust. 
The  divine  image  is  in  him,  and  can  not  be  alto- 
gether suppressed.  He  has  sometimes  given  me  a  blow 
for  my  love,  and  I  have  paid  him  for  it.  Because  he 
still  loves  to  wallow  I  do  not  despair.  Let  us  give  him 
the  benefit  of  a  living  hope  in  his  capacity  for  improve- 
ment." 

Circumstances,  the  outgrowth  of  a  dominant  idea, 
in  part,  have  kept  Mr.  Cobb  from  cultivating  the  poeti- 
cal side  of  his  nature  as  he  would  otherwise  have  culti- 
vated it.  Rhythm  was  born  in  him  earlier  than  reform, 
but  became  subservient  to  it.  In  his  early  childhood  he 
improvised.  As  we  have  said,  he  began  writing  for  pub- 
lication when  very  young.  But  rhythmic  expression  was 


-72  WA.IFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

largely  foregone  after  the  reform  idea  took  such  hold 
upon  him.  -He  wrote  a  dozen  times  as  many  poems  at 
fifteen  years  of  age  as  at  twenty-five ;  and  since  then  the 
poetic  impulse  has  been  yielded  to  very  rarely.  When  he 
has  written  verse  he  has  been  strongly  moved  to  it;  and 
in  the  majority  of  such  instances  the  effort  has  never  seen 
the  light  of  print.  Among  our  papers  we  find  the  fol 
lowing : 

THE  SHIPS  THA  T  SAIL  A  WA  Y. 

I  think  of  the  ships  that  sail  away, 
The  white- winged  ships  that  sail  away, 
Freighted  with  fears  and  wnsted  tears, 
And  joys  we  gathered  for  long,  long  years, 
For  the  possible  rainy  day. 

I  sleep,  and  drea"m  of  the  white-winged  ship? 
That  glide  from  the  shores  of  life  away  ! 
That  swiftly  glide  with  the  ebbing  tide, 
Bearing  my  joys  to  the  farther  side. 
Into  the  twilight  gray. 

O,  ships  that  vanish  into  the  past  ! 
Are  none  to  return  to  the  port  at  last  1 
Shall  I  vainly  wait  at  the  seward  gate 
Beaten,  and  bruised,  and  scarred  by  fate, 
Chilled  by  the  winter  blast  ? 

The  ships  that  carry  my  griefs — alas  ! 
Have  hulls  of  iron  and  shrouds  of  brass  ! 
The  storm's  impact  leaves  them  intact, 
Though  hurled  on  the  jagged  rocks  of  Fact, 
Where  fearful  breakers  mass  ! 


M.  H.  COBB.  73 

Writing,  with  Mr.  Cobb,  is  often  less  a  matter  of 
volition  than  compulsion.  The  poetic  impulse  is  strong 
within  him  under  the  influence  of  either  pain  or  pleas- 
ure. From  his  temperament  he  will  take  to  rhythmic 
expression  whenever  hurt  or  pleased,  or  whenever  by  any 
means  fervently  wrought  upon.  "The  World  would  be 
the  Better  for  It "  took  form  in  his  mind  almost  unbidden 
early  one  December  morning  in  1854,  and  rising  he 
transcribed  it,  sent  it  to  The  Tribune,  and  it  has  been 
everywhere  read,  since.  He  obeyed  the  poetic  impulse 
then,  under  the  influence  of  love  for  the  community. 
In  the  few  verses  last  quoted  his  impulse  was  evidently 
influenced  by  some  sharp  thrust  of  disappointment,  that 
left  keen  pain  in  the  soul.  The  influence  is  less  per- 
sonal, but  not  quite  hidden,  in  this  poem  published  in 
The  Tribune  in  1866,  entitled 

DECEMBER. 

Far  down  the  somber-tinted  North, 
Where  Argol  leads  his  train  of  suns, 

Gray  Winter's  herald  issues  forth 
And  casts  his  mantle'  as  he  runs. 

So  speeds  he  in  his  icy  mail ; 

His  breath  falls  down"  in  glitt'ring  frost, 
And  like  the  sea-spray  on  the  gale 

His  hoary,  unbound  locks  are  tost. 

He  smites  the  rivers  and  the  lakes ; 

His  path  is  over  plain  and  hill  ; 
The  night  is  past,  and  morning  breaks 

Upon  the  mountains,  gray  and  chill. 


7  4  WAIFS  AND   7'fIEIR  A  UTHQRS. 

O  Summer,  with  your  violet  eyes  ! 

O  golden  Autumn,  many-sheaved  ! 
Our  griefs  are  voiced  in  sobs  and  sighs, 

Like  little  children  oft-bereaved. 

O  winds,  perfumed  with  Summer  flowers  ! 

O  fields,  in  Summer's  emerald  sheen  ! 
O  Summer  birds,  and  Summer  bowers, 

O  Summer  days  and  nights  serene  ! 

We  have  but  a  few  of  Mr.  Cobb's  published  poems 
before  us  from  which  to  select,  and  therefore  can  only 
give  such  as  illustrate  his  various  styles  of  thought,  with- 
out feeling  any  wise  sure  that  either  specimen  given  is 
the  best  of  its  kind  which  he  has  produced.  The  fol- 
lowing was  contributed  to  The  Tribune  just  after  the  loss 
of  an  ocean  steamer  : 

A  SHIP  SAILED  OUT  TO  SEA. 

Over  the  pathless  deep 

A  thousand  miles  away, 
Where  spicy  breezes  sleep 

To  wake  at  shut  of  day, 
A  gallant  ship  went  down — 
A  thousand  fathoms  down, 

Beneath  the  waters  blue — 

Ship,  passengers,  and  crew. 

No  eye  beheld  the  wreck 

Save  the  All-seeing  Eye  ; 
But,  from  the  crowded  deck 

Went  up  a  fearful  cry, 
Ere  to  their  nameless  graves 


M.  H.  COBB.  75 

Beneath  the  pitiless  waves, 
Five  hundred  and  a  score 
That  foundering  vessel  bore. 

"  No  tidings  ! "  rang  the  press  ; 
"  No  tidings  of  the  ship  !" 
A  city  paused  in  mute  distress, 

And  whitened  every  lip  ; 
No  tidings?     Can  it  be, 
A  ship  went  down  to  sea 
And  shall  return  no  more 
To  homeward  port,  or  shore  ? 

"  No  tidings  !  "  day  by  day 

The  clanking  press  rung  out ; 
Thus  swept  the  months  away ; 

A  year  of  awful  doubt. 
«  No   tdings  ! "  nevermore 
To  port  on  homeward  shore, 
Will  that  good  ship  return, 
To  comfort  those  who  mourn  \ 

And  thus  for  many  a  bark, 

With  its  immortal  freight, 
In  chill  suspense   and  dark 

Shall  men  in  anguish  wait, 
The  while  they  sadly  say — 
•'  Alas  !  they  sailed  away 

Over  the  pathless  main 

And  come  not  back  again  !  '* 

Lost — lost  at  sea  !  and  yet, 

I  see  their  phantom  shapes 
With  gleaming  sails  all  set, 

Doubling  the  shadowy  capes  ; 


7 6  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

The  capes  that  fade  away, 
Like  shades  at  shut  of  day, 

Into  the  waste  of  Night  ! 

Into  the  utter  Night ! 

This,  of  quite  another  character,  appeared  in  The 
Evening  Post  several  years  ago.  It  conjures  up  a  picture 
of  rare  beauty,  and  is  delicately  limned  : 

THE  MOUNTAIN  IN  THE   WEST. 

Last  eve  the  sunset  winds  upheaved 

A  mountain  in  the  west, 
All  seamed  with  gloomy  gulfs,  from  base 

Up  to  its  golden  crest ; 
Cloud  piled  on  cloud  that  mountain  rose — 

A  storm  whose  wrath  was  spent'— 
Its  routed  legions  gathered  up, 

In  common  ruin  blent ; 
And  all  about  its  dark  base  rolled 

A  sea  of  gorgeous  dyes, 
And  on  its  summit  blazed  a  fire 

Too  bright  for  mortal  eyes  ; 
And  grandly  down  its  southern  slope 

A  purpling  river  flowed 
Into  the  sea  of  gorgeous  dyes 

Which  at  its  foot  abode. 

And  we,  who  marked  the  scene  sublime, 

Beheld  a  shining  band 
Press  upward  to  the  mountain  top, 

As  to  a  Promised  Land  ; 
Their  faces  kindling  with  the  light 

That  played  about  its  crest— 


M.  //.  COBB.  77 

And  two,  more  glorious,  led  the  way, 

In  spotless  garments  dressed  ; 
Some  wearied  on  the  way,  and  these 

The  stronger  lifted  up, 
And  held  unto  their  parching  lips 

Love's  overflowing  cup — 
And  thus  refreshed,  they  buoyantly 

Pressed  forward  in  the  van, 
And  leaped  and  danced  for  gladness,  where 

The  purpling  river  ran. 

Thus  joyously  the  band  pressed  on 

Until  the  least  had  won 
And  stood  transfigured  on  the  mount — 

The  children  of  the  sun  ; 
But  soon  their  brightness  waxed  too  great 

For  mortal  eyes  to  bear, 
And  Night,  in  mercy,  dropped  her  veil 

To  hide  the  vision  fair ; 
But  we,  who  saw  that  light  sublime, 

Hallowing  yestereven, 
Joyed  in  the  thought  that  we  had  sped 

A  little  nearer  Heaven. 

Mr.  Cobb  was  of  the  original  staff  of  the  New 
York  World,  and  later  was  employed  upon  the  Phila- 
delphia Daily  Day.  He  is  now  taking  life  a  little  easier 
than  active  journalism  permits — enjoying  a  half  respite, 
richly  earned  by  long  years  of  hard  and  unceasing  toil. 


JAMES  G.  CLARK. 

[HERE  are  some  waifs  which  we  are  always  glad 
to  see,  however  often  we  chance  upon  them, — 
some  which,  through  their  sweet  suggestiveness, 
never  fail  to  awaken  purer  reflections,  to  turn  our  thought 
for  a  little  time  away  from  every-day  themes,  and  to  lead 
us  up,  out  of  self  and  selfish  things,  into  a  new  atmos- 
phere. Of  this  class  is  the  following,  ever  worthy  the 
space  so  frequently  accorded  it  by  newspapers  : 

ART  THOU  LIVING  YET. 

Is  there  no  grand,  immortal  sphere 

Beyond  the  realm  of  broken  ties, 
To  fill  the  wants  that  mock  us  here, 

And  dry  the  tears  from  weeping  eyes ; 
Where  winter  melts  in  endless  spring, 

And  June  stands  near  with  deathless  flowers ; 
Where  we  may  hear  the  dear  ones  sing 

Who  loved  us  in  this  world  of  ours? 
I  ask,  and  lo  !  my  cheeks  are  wet 

With  tears  for  one  I  can  not  see ; 
Oh,  mother,  art  thou  living  yet, 

And  dost  thou  still  remember  me  ? 

I  feel  thy  kisses  o'er  me  thrill, 

Thou  unseen  angel  of  my  life  ; 
I  hear  thy  hymns  around  me  thrill 

An  undertone  to  care  and  strife  ; 


8o  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Thy  tender  eyes  upon  me  shine, 

As  from  a  being  glorified, 
Till  I  am  thine  and  thou  art  mine, 

And  I  forget  that  thou  hast  died. 
I  almost  lose  each  vain  regret 

In  visions  of  a  life  to  be  ; 
But,  mother,  art  thou  living  yet, 

And  dost  thou  still  remember  me  ? 

The  springtimes  bloom,  the  summers  fade, 

The  winters  blow  along  my  way ; 
But  over  every  light  and  shade 

Thy  memory  lives  by  night  and  day  ; 
It  soothes  to  sleep  my  wildest  pain, 

Like  some  sweet  song  that  can  not  die, 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  the  main, 

Grows  deeper  when  the  storm  is  nigh. 
I  know  the  brightest  stars  that  set 

Return  to  bless  the  yearning  sea; 
But,  mother,  art  thou  living  yet, 

And  dost  thou  still  remember  me  ? 

I  sometimes  think  thy  soul  comes  back 

From  o'er  the  dark  and  silent  stream, 
Where  last  we  watched  thy  shining  'track 

To  those  green  hills  of  which  we  dream  ; 
Thy  loving  arms  around  me  twine, 

My  cheeks  bloom  younger  in  thy  breath, 
Till  thou  art  mine  and  I  am  thine, 

Without  a  thought  of  pain  or  death ; 
And  yet,  at  times,  my  eyes  are  wet 

With  tears  for  her  I  can  not  see — 
Oh !  mother,  art  thou  living  yet, 

And  dost  thou  still  remember  me 


JAMES  G.  CLARK. 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  81 

Was  there  ever  more  tender  tribute  paid  to  a  moth- 
er's memory,  than  throbs  throughout  this  ?  The  ques- 
tioning exists  only  in  form  ;  this  we  realize,  as  we  read 
each  soulful  line.  In  the  poet's  remembrance  the 
mother  lives  on,  as  much  a  cheering  personal  presence 
as  in  the  days  gone  by;  and  the  poet  feels  that  when 
life's  waiting  is  over,  together  they  will  enter  upon  im- 
mortality. Thank  God  that  some  mothers  live  thus,  al- 
though their  places  here  with  us  be  vacant ! 

The  poem  has  been  so  widely  published  with  full 
recognition  of  authorship  that,  although  often  appearing 
as  a  waif,  we  need  hardly  say  it  was  written  by  James  G. 
Clark.  Mr.  Clark  was  born  on  the  28th  of  June,  1830, 
in  the  little  village  of  Constantia,  N.  Y.,  close  by  the 
border  of  Oneida  Lake.  His  parents  were  excellent 
Christian  people,  well-known  and  much  respected  in  the 
community.  His  father,  Sereno  Clark,  was  quite  promi- 
nent in  Oswego  county  politics,  being  Supervisor  of  his 
town  for  ten  or  twelve  years,  Justice  of  the  Peace  full 
twenty  years,  and  member  of  the  Constitutional  Con- 
vention in  1846.  His  mother  was  a  very  fine  singer,  and 
possessed  of  a  highly  poetic  organization,  and  from  her 
he  inherited  those  gifts  that  have  made  him  so  popular 
as  a  balladist  and  poet.  We  believe  both  parents  have 
been  dead  several  years. 

In  childhood  Mr.  Clark  displayed  great  taste  for 
music,  as  also  a  strong  liking  for  dreamful  idleness. 
Before  he  could  talk  he  sang  tunes  correctly ;  and  much 

7 


82  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

of  his  time,  in  summer,  he  spent  in  lonely  loitering 
about  the  borders  of  Oneida  Lake,  dreaming  the  days 
away.  His  educational  opportunities  were  fair,  nothing 
more.  Largely  self-taught,  in  music  as  in  general 
knowledge,  he  owes  much  to  a  rare  quickness  of  per- 
ception allied  to  unusual  powers  of  memory,  and  to  a 
ready  comprehension  of  the  salient  features  of  things. 
He  has  been  all  his  life  a  student,  though  not  many 
years  a  student  of  the  schools.  He  has  studied  human- 
ity and  nature,  with  a  largeness  of  heart  and  a  sympathy 
of  soul  to  understand  both. 

Mr.  Clark  first  drew  public  attention  to  himself,  not 
as  a  poet,  tmt  as  a  concert  singer.  Or  rather,  while  he 
began  by  being  both  poet  and  singer — for  from  the  out- 
set he  sang  his  own  songs — people  thought  of  him  first 
as  singer  instead  of  poet.  He  drifted  into  the  concert- 
field  by  force  of  natural  tendencies,  with  no  thought 
that  he  might  make  concertizing  a  permanent  business. 
First  he  traveled  with  a  troupe  of  his  own,  made  up  from 
neighboring  counties  ;  then  he  associated  himself  with 
Ossian  E.  Dodge — famous  as  a  public  performer  twenty 
years  ago — acting  for  a  time  in  the  capacity  of  musical 
composer,  and  afterwards  as  musical  director,  of  the 
troupe  known  as  "Ossian's  Bards."  We  have  said  that 
at  first  the  people  thought  of  him  rather  as  the  singer 
than  the  poet,  and  yet  it  was  during  this  portion  of  his 
life  that  he  wrote  and  set  to  music  several  of  his  best 
known  and  most  admired  poems  —  poems  which  have 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  83 

done  ballad  duty  every  since,  and  which,  it  is  safe  to  say, 
have  been  more  popular  among  the  cultured  and  intelli- 
gent than  any  similar  productions  from  any  other  Ameri- 
can writer.  "The  Rover's  Grave;"  "The  Old  Moun- 
tain Tree;  "The  Rock  of  Liberty;"  "Meet  Me  by  the 
Running  Brook;"  "The  Mountains  of  Life,"  and  "The 
Beautiful  Hills,"  carried  his  name  everywhere. 

"The  Mountains  of   Life"   has   been   very  widely 
copied  and  several  times  plagiarized. 

THE  MOUNTA  INS  OF  LIFE. 

There's  a  land  far  away  'mid  the  stars  we  are  told, 
Where  they  know  not  the  sorrows  of  time, 

Where  the  pure  waters  wander  through  valleys  of  gold, 
And  life  is  a  treasure  sublime ; 

'T  .s  the  land  of  our  God,  't  is  the  home  of  the  soul, 

Where  ages  of  splendor  eternally  roll — 

Where  the  way-weary  traveler  reaches  his  goal, 
On  the  evergreen  Mountains  of  Life. 

Our  gaze  cannot  soar  to  that  beautiful  land, 

But  our  visions  have  told  of  its  bliss, 
AIK.  our  souls  by  the  gales  from  its  garden  are  fanned, 

When  we  faint  in  the  desert  of  this ; 
And  we  sometimes  have  longed  for  its  holy  repose, 
When  our  spirits  were  torn  with  temptations  and  woes, 
And  we'  ve  drank  from  the  tide  of  the  river  that  flows 
From  the  evergreen  Mountains  of  Life. 

O,  the  stars  never  tread  the  blue  heavens  at  night 

But  we  think  where  the  ransomed  have  trod — 

And  the  day  never  smiles  from  his  palace  of  light 
But  we  feel  the  bright  smile  of  our  God  ; 


84  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

We  are  traveling  homeward,  through  changes  and  gloom, 
To  a  kingdom  where  pleasures  unceasingly  bloom, 
"  And  our  guide  is  the  glory  that  shines  through  the  tomb," 
From  the  evergreen  Mountains  of  Life. 

Finer  than  this,  in  the  estimation  of  many,  and 
differing  from  it  sufficiently  to  be  included  here,  al- 
though nearly  akin  in  spirit,  is  the  following : 

THE  BEA  UTIFUL  HILLS. 

Oh  !  the  Beautiful  Hills  where  the  blest  have  trod 

Since  the  years  when  the  earth  was  new ; 
Where  our  fathers  gaze  from  the  field  of  God, 

On  the  vale  we  are  traveling  through. 
We  have  seen  those  hills  in  their  brightness  rise, 

When  the  world  was  black  below, 
And  we'  ve  felt  the  thrill  of  immortal  eyes, 
In  the  night  of  our  darkest  woe. 

Then  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills, 

That  rise  from  the  evergreen  shore ; 
Oh  !  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills, 

Where  the  weary  shall  toil  no  more. 

The  cities  of  yore  that  were  reared  in  crime, 

And  renowned  by  the  praise  of  seers, 
Went  down  in  the  tramp  of  old  King  Time, 

To  sleep  with  his  gray-haired  years. 
But  the  Beautiful  Hills  rise  bright  and  strong 

Through  the  smoke  of  old  Time's  red  wars, 
As  on  that  day  when  the  first  deep  song 

Rose  up  from  the  morning  stars. 

Then  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills,  etc. 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  35 

We  dream  of  rest  on  the  Beautiful  Hills, 

Where  the  traveler  shall  thirst  no  more  ; 
And  we  hear  the  hum  of  a  thousand  rills 

That  wander  the  green  glens  o'er. 
We  can  feel  the  souls  of  the  martyred  men 

Who  have  braved  a  cold  world's  frown ; 
We  can  bear  the  burdens  which  they  did  then, 

Nor  shrink  from  their  thorny  crown. 

Then  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills,  etc. 

Our  arms  are  weak,  yet  we  would  not  fling 

To  our  feet  this  load  of  ours. 
The  winds  of  spring  to  the  valleys  sing, 

And  the  turf  replies  with  flowers  ; 
And  thus  we  learn  on  our  wintry  way, 

How  a  mightier  arm  controls, 
That  the  breath  of  God  on  our  lives  will  play 
Till  our  bodies  bloom  to  souls. 

Then  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills, 

That  rise  from  the  evergreen  shore  ; 
Oh  !  sing  for  the  Beautiful  Hills, 

Where  the  weary  shall  toil  no  more. 

Another,  not  less  known,  and  always  liked,  as  well 
for  the  uncommon  beauty  of  the  poem  as  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  melody  to  which  it  was  wedded,  we  give 
entire : 

MARION  MOORE. 

Gone,  art  thou,  Marion,  Marion  Moore, 
Gone,  like  the  bird  in  the  autumn  that  singeth  ; 
Gone,  like  the  flower  by  the  way-side  that  springeth, 
Gone  like  the  leaf  of  the  ivy  that  clingeth 

Round  the  lone  rock  on  a  storm-beaten  shore. 


86  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Dear  wert  thou  Marion,  Marion  Moore, 
Dear  as  the  tide  in  my  broken  heart  throbbing  ; 
Dear  as  the  soul  o'er  thy  memory  sobbing ; 
Sorrow  my  life  of  its  roses  is  robbing ; 

Wasting  is  all  the  glad  beauty  of  yore. 

I  will  remember  thee,  Marion  Moore  ; 
I  will  remember,  alas  !  to  regret  thee  ; 
I  will  regret  when  all  others  forget  thee ; 
Deep  in  my  breast  will  the  hour  that  I  met  thee 

Linger  and  burn  till  life's  fever  is  o'er. 

Gone,  art  thou,  Marion,  Marion  Moore  ' 
Gone,  like  the  breeze  o'er  the  billow  that  bloweth ; 
Gone,  like  the  rill  to  the  ocean  that  floweth ; 
Gone,  as  the  day  from  the  gray  mountain  goeth, 

Darkness  behind  thee,  but  glory  before  ' 

Peace  to  thee,  Marion,  Marion  Moore  ! 
Peace  which  the  queens  of  the  earth  can  not  borrow  ; 
Peace  from  a  kingdom  that  crowned  thee  with  sorrow ; 
O  !  to  be  happy  with  thee  on  the  morrow, 

Who  would  not  fly  from  this  desolate  shore  ? 

In  all  the  ballad  literature  of  our  language  there  is 
no  purer  sentiment  than  is  embodied  in  these  five  stan- 
zas, nowhere  is  pure  sentiment  more  admirably  ex- 
pressed. We  never  sing  the  fourth  stanza  but  the  beauty 
of  that  last  simile  impresses  us  anew. 

"  Gone,  as  the  day  from  the  gray  mountain  goeth, 
Darkness  behind  thee,  but  glory  before  !  " 

Could  there  be  anything  more  completely  expressive? 
One  can  rarely  find  as  perfect  a  gem  as  this.     And  very 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  87 

seldom  will  you   chance  upon  a  tenderer  little  ballad 
than  this  of 

SWEET  RUTH. 

The  summer  will  soon  be  here,  sweet  Ruth, 

For  the  birds  of  brighter  bowers 
Are  singing  their  way  from  the  balmy  South 

To  the  land  of  opening  flowers  ; 
But  the  summer  will  fade,  and  the  flowers  will  die, 

And  the  birds,  from  bank  and  plain, 
Go  mourning  back  to  a  warmer  sky 

While  I  wait  for  thee  in  vain. 

O  !  many  a  heart  and  many  a  hand 

I  have  prized  in  pain  and  bliss, 
Have  found  that  rest  in  a  better  land 

Which  they  never  knew  in  this  ; 
And  of  all  the  forms  that  fled  with  thee, 

From  a  kingdom  fraught  with  tears, 
There  are  none  that  seem  like  thine  to  me 

Through  the  golden  mist  of  years. 

But  I  never  have  wished  thee  back,  sweet  Ruth, 

In  the  years  that  since  have  rolled, 
And  I  guard  the  memory  of  thy  truth 

As  a  miser  would  his  gold. 
The  loneliest  glens  of  my  being  know 

How  the  birds  of  peace  may  sing, 
And  the  darkest  waves  have  caught  the  glow 

From  a  guardian  angel's  wing. 

While  Mr.  Clark  was  director  of  "Ossian's  Bards," 
the  bass  singer  of  the  troupe — Mr.  Albert  G.  Tanner, 
of  Jordan, — a  very  excellent  and  gifted  young  man, 


88  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

sickened  with  fever,  and  died.  It  was  in  his  memory 
that  "November"  was  written,  one  of  Mr.  Clark's  best 
pieces.  We  would  much  like  to  copy  it  in  full,  but  will 
give  only  the  closing  stanzas  : 

I  hear  the  muffled  tramp  of  years 

Come  stealing  up  the  slope  of  Time  ; 

They  bear  a  train  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Of  burning  hopes  and  dreams  sublime  ; 

But  future  years  may  never  fling 

A  treasure  from  their  passing  hours, 

Like  those  that  come  on  sleepless  wingr 

From  memory's  golden  plain  of  flowers. 

• 

The  morning  breeze  of  long-ago 

Sweeps  o'er  my  brain  with  soft  control, 
Fanning  the  embers  to  a  glow, 

Amidst  the  ashes  round  my  soul ; 
And  by  the  dim  and  flickering  light, 

I  see  thy  beauteous  form  appear, 
Like  one  returned  from  wandering  bright, 

To  bless  my  lonely  moments  here. 

Tanner's  death  necessitated  a  re -organization  of 
the  troupe,  and  while  looking  for  a  man  to  fill  the  va- 
cancy, Mr.  Clark  took  the  field  alone,  and  began  giving 
ballad  concerts.  Since  that  time  he  has  constantly  sung 
alone,  as  a  matter  both  of  profit  and  choice.  He  has 
been  highly  successful.  That  he  has  been  able  to  sus- 
tain himself  so  many  years,  unassisted  by  other  talent, 
is  ample  testimony  as  to  the  character  of  his  entertain- 
ments. Possessing  a  voice  of  peculiar  sweetness,  and 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  89 

having  that  final  accomplishment  of  the  good  balladist,  a 
perfect  enunciation,  to  listen  to  him  of  an  evening  is 
genuine  pleasure  unalloyed. 

One  secret  of  his  success  in  the  concert-room  lies  in 
the  fact  that  his  songs  are  not  common-place  rhyme,  or 
wretched  doggerel.  In  selecting  a  song  for  public  ren- 
dering, his  first  consideration  is  sentiment  that  he  be- 
lieves in ;  the  next,  poetic  expression  that  he  can  ap- 
prove of.  Other  considerations  are  secondary  to  these. 
As  a  result,  his  singing  has  an  influence  uplifting  and 
ennobling ;  and  we  can  heartily  endorse  the  expression 
of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cuyler,  in  wishing  there  were  "ten 
thousand  such  men  singing  truths  into  the  hearts  of  the 
people/' 

Of  late  years  Mr.  Clark  has  written  little  verse — not 
the  half  that  should  have  come  from  his  pen.  Early  in 
the  war  he  gave  us  the  best  lyric  called  forth  by  that  sad 
time,  unless  we  except  Mrs.  Howe's  "Battle  Hymn," 
and  it  seemed  a  pity  that  he  should  not  write  more 
lyrics.  True,  he  did  pen  one  or  two  others,  when  war 
had  ceased,  and  they  went  the  rounds  of  the  press.  One 
of  these,  and  the  longest,  is  entitled  "The  Boatman's 
Dream,"  and  blends  the  descriptive  and  the  imaginative 
in  an  unusual  degree.  To  illustrate  how  largely  his  tal- 
ent partakes  of  the  former  element,  we  quote  the  first 
two  stanzas,  which  are  rarely  equalled  : 

With  long  arms  o'er  the  prairies  tossed, 
And  feet  that  bathed  in  tropic  spray, 


9o  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

And  head  all  white  with  Northern  frost, 

The  mighty  Sire  of  Waters  lay  ; 
His  fingers  gleamed  with  priceless  mines, 

Or  watered  herds  along  the  plains, 
And  lowly  grass  and  lofty  pines 

Drew  life  and  grandeur  from  his  veins. 

The  June  winds  left  their  mountain  towers, 

Which  guard  the  Valleys  of  the  West, 
With  odors  from  a  million  flowers, 

To  soothe  the  sleeping  giant's  rest  ; 
They  danced  along  his  pulsing  form, 

With  many  a  quaint  and  charming  grace, 
And  threw  their  kisses,  sweet  and  warm, 

In  dimples  on  his  weary  face. 

The  poem  which,  of  all  he  has  written,  Mr.  Clark 
considers  best,  we  reproduce,  entire,  below.  In  its  way, 
it  has  few,  if  any,  equals,  and  is  certainly  unsurpassed. 
It  was  written  during  ten  days  of  watching  by  the  bed- 
side of  that  mother  to  whom  he  has  paid  such  loving 
tribute  in  the  Waif 'of  this  article — watching  that  ended 
only  with  the  mother's  death — written,  as  Mr.  Clark  once 
assured  us,  when  the  pressure  to  write  was  irresistible, 
when  he  could  not  help  writing. 

LEON  A. 

Leona,  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

The  hour  we'  ve  awaited  so  long, 
For  the  angel  to  open  a  door  through  the  sky, 
That  my  spirit  may  break  from  its  prison  and  try 
Its  voice  in  an  infinite  song. 


JAMES  G.  CLARK. 

Just  now,  as  the  slumbers  of  night 

Came  o'er  me  with  peace-giving  breath, 
The  curtain,  half  lifted,  revealed  to  my  sight 
Those  windows  which  look  on  the  kingdom  of  light, 
That  borders  the  river  of  death. 

And  a  vision  fell  solemn  and  sweet, 

Bringing  gleams  of  a  morning-lit  land  ; 
I  saw  the  white  shore  which  the  pale  waters  beat, 
And  I  heard  the  low  lull  as  they  broke  at  their  feet 
Who  walked  on  the  beautiful  strand. 

And  I  wondered  why  spirits  should  cling 
To  their  clay  with  a  struggle  and  sigh, 
When  life's  purple  autumn  is  better  than  spring, 
And  the  soul  flies  away  like  a'  sparrow,  to  sing 
In  a  climate  where  leaves  never  die. 

Leona,  come  close  to  my  bed, 

And  lay  your  dear  hand  on  my  brow  ; 
The  same  touch  that  thrilled  me  in  days  that  are  fled, 
And  raised  the  lost  roses  of  youth  from  the  dead, 
Can  brighten  the  brief  moments  now. 

We  have  loved  from  the  cold  world  apart, 
And  your  trust  was  too  generous  and  true 

For  their  hate  to  o'erthrow  ;  when  the  slanderer's  dart 

Was  rankling  deep  in  my  desolate  heart, 
I  was  dearer  than  ever  to  you. 

I  thank  the  Great  Father  for  this, 

That  our  love  is  not  lavished  in  vain  ; 
Each  germ,  in  the  future,  will  blossom  to  bliss, 
And  the  forms  that  we  love,  and  the  lips  that  we  kiss, 
Never  shrink  at  the  shadow  of  pain. 


92  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

By  the  light  of  this  faith  am  I  taught 

That  my  labor  is  only  begun  ; 

In  the  strength  of  this  hope  have  I  struggled  and  fought 
With  the  legions  of  wrong,  till  my  armor  has  caught 

The  gleam  of  Eternity's  sun. 

Leona,  look  forth  and  behold, 

From  headland,  from  hillside,  and  deep, 
The  day-king  surrenders  his  banners  of  gold ; 
The  twilight  advances  through  woodland  and  wold, 
And  the  dews  are  beginning  to  weep. 

The  moon's  silver  hair  lies  uncurled, 

Down  the  broad-breasted  mountains  away ; 
Ere  sunset's  red  glories  again  shall  be  furled 
On  the  walls  of  the  west,  o'er  the  plains  of  the  world, 
I  shall  rise  in  a  limitless  day. 

O !  come  not  in  tears  to  my  tomb, 

Nor  plant  with  frail  flowers  the  sod  ; 

There  is  rest  among  roses  too  sweet  for  its  gloom, 

And  life  where  the  lilies  eternally  bloom 

In  the  balm-breathing  gardens  of  God. 

Yet  deeply  those  memories  burn, 

Which  bind  me  to  you  and  to  earth, 

And  I  sometimes  have  thought  that  my  being  would  yearn 
In  the  bowers  of  its  beautiful  home,  to  return 
And  visit  the  land  of  its  birth. 

'T  would  even  be  pleasant  to  stay, 
And  walk  by  your  side  to  the  last ; 

But  the  land-breeze  of  Heaven  is  beginning  to  play — 

Life's  shadows  are  meeting  Eternity's  day, 

And  its  tumult  is  hushed  in  the  past. 


JAMES  G.  CLARK.  93 

Leona,  good-by  ;  should  the  grief 
That  is  gathering  now  ever  be 
Too  dark  for  your  faith,  you  will  long  for  relief, 
,  And  remember,  the  journey,  though  lonesome,  is  brief, 
Over  lowland  and  river  to  me. 

It  will  be  seen  on  perusing  such  poems  as  "  Leona," 
''The  Evergreen  Mountains  of  Life"  and  "The  Beauti- 
ful Hills," — indeed  it  is  apparent  in  nearly  all  his  poeti- 
cal productions — that  Mr.  Clark's  nature  is  peculiarly  a 
religious  one.  Yet  his  religion  is  of  a  broad  and  liberal 
type ;  in  fact,  he.  is  in  religion  what  he  is  in  politics — a 
radical.  By  church  connection  an  Episcopalian,  by  na- 
tive sympathy  of  thought  and  feeling  he  is  a  Liberal, 
with  theology  as  wide  as  the  widest.  He  seems  to  have 
been  foreordained  a  Reformer.  He  sings  and  writes 
always  in  the  interest  of  what  he  deems  Truth.  Within 
a  few  years  he  has  written  several  prose  essays,  for  The 
Independent  and  other  papers,  which  in  their  radicalness 
have  been  vigorous  and  pungent,  and  which  have  shown 
him  to  be  one  of  the  strong  thinkers  of  the  time.  As 
another  specimen  of  his  purely  religious  verse,  we  quote 
the  following : 

THE  DA  WN  OF  REDEMPTION, 

( 

See  them  go  forth  like  the  floods  to  the  ocean, 

Gathering  might  from  each  mountain  and  glen ; 

Wider  and  deeper  the  tide  of  devotion 

Rolls  up  to  God  from  the  bosoms  of  men  ; 

Hear  the  great  multitude,  mingling  in  chorus, 


94  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Groan  as  they  gaze  from  their  crimes  to  the  sky, 
Father,  the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 

When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?  " 

Look  on  us  wanderers,  sinful  and  lowly, 

Struggling  with  grief  and  temptation  below  ; 
Thine  is  the  goodness  o'er  everything  holy, 

Thine  is  the  mercy  to  pity  our  woe ; 
Thine  is  the  power  to  cleanse  and  restore  us 

Spotless  and  pure  as  the  angels  on  high, 
"  Father,  the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 

When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?" 

Gray  hair  and  golden  youth,  matron  and  maiden, 

Lovers  of  mammon  and  followers  of  fame, 
All  with  the  same  solemn  burden  are  laden, 

Lifting  their  stmls  to  that  one  mighty  name : 
"  Wild  is  the  pathway  that  surges  before  us, 

On  the  broad  waters  the  black  shadows  lie, 
Father,  the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 

When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?  " 

Lo !  the  vast  depths  of  futurity's  ocean 

Heave  with  the  pulse  of  the  Infinite  breath, 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  the  billows'  commotion  ? 

Angels  are  walking  the  waters  of  death ; 
Angels  are  blending  their  notes  in  the  chorus, 

Rising  like  incense  from  earth  to  the  sky, 
"  Father,  the  billows  grow  lighter  before  us, 

Heaven  with  its  mansions  eternal  draws  nigh." 

Mr.  Clark  is  a  fine  specimen  of  physical  manhood. 
Always  temperate — in  principle  and  practice  a  Total 
Abstainer — he  has  preserved  his  powers  singularly  well ; 
and  having  studied  the  art  of  keeping  in  good  health  he 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  95 

is  full  of  promise  for  the  years  to  come.  Above  the  me- 
dium height,  he  carries  a  good  head  on  goodly  shoul- 
ders, erect  and  manlike.  He  wears  a  full  beard,  of  a 
deep  auburn  tint,  deeming  the  razor  a  civilization  against 
nature ;  and  above  this  his  aquiline  nose,  his  rather  small 
but  soul-lit  eyes,  and  his  broad,  high  forehead,  over 
which  the  wavy  hair  drops  in  half  carelessness,  form  a 
pleasing  picture.  He  has  been  several  years  married, 
and  has  two  interesting  children,  and  resides  in  Syracuse 
in  the  interim  of  his  concert  tours. 

Dr.  James  C.  Jackson,  editor  of  The  Laws  of  Life 
and  a  keen  judge  of  men,  in  a  letter  to  the  Rochester 
Democrat  6*  Chronicle  pronounced  Mr.  Clark's  making 
up  "eminently  composite,"  and  after  speaking  of  his 
musical  and  poetical  gifts  said  : 

"As  a  comedian,  exhibiting  only  in  the  privacies  ofj 
the  parlor,  he  shows  wonderful  endowments.  Were  he 
to  cultivate  his  capacities  the  highest  citizens  of  the  land 
would  gather  to  his  entertainments,  would  he  but  make 
them  public.  He  makes  a  great  mistake  to  let  this  field 
lie  fallow.  As  a  conversationist  he  is  very  entertaining, 
and  as  a  prose  writer  he  is  making  character  rapidly.  If 
James  G.  Clark  will  keep  teachable — willing  to  learn  by 
whomsoever  Divine  Providence  will  send  to  him,  and  at 
the  same  time  study  the  art  of  persuasiveness,  I  believe 
that  he  will  yet  give  to  mankind  a  poem  that  will  carry 
his  name  lovingly  to  future  generations." 


96 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UJ'HORS. 


We  agree  with  Dr.  Jackson  as  to  the  possibilities 
within  him  whom  we  have  imperfectly  sketched.  James 
G.  Clark  should  be  more  than  a  "newspaper  poet." 
What  he  has  already  written  is  as  worthy  the  blue  and 
gold  of  our  libraries  as  is  most  of  that  which  wears  the 
literary  ermine — more  worthy  than  much.  And  what  he 
has  written  is  only  a  prelude  to  what  he  ought  to  write. 
But  he  is  not  a  prolific  writer;  he  never  will  be.  He  is 
too  much  an  artist  ever  to  be  voluminous.  He  finishes •, 
as  he  goes  along,  and  is  as  rigid  in  his  choice  of  words 
as  was  ever  the  man  whom  he  most  resembles  in  general 
-Tom  Moore.  He  composes  mainly  while  walking, 
somewhat  as  did  Wordsworth,  and  not  seldom  will  repeat 
an  entire  poem  before  a  line  of  it  has  been  penned 
down.  If  ever  he  does  pen  a  long  poem — and  we  trust 
he  may — it  will  be  conscientiously  worked  out,  will  be  a 
labor  of  artistic  love,  and  will  place  his  name  high 
among  the  gifted  singers  of  the  world.  As  showing  the 
artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Clark's  verse,  and  to  catch,  in 
parting  from  him,  a  little  more  of  his  delicate  regard  for 
natural  beauty,  albeit  somewhat  tinged  in  this  instance 
by  a  shade  of  melancholy,  we  quote 

THE    WOOD-ROBIN. 

How  calmly  the  lingering  light 

Beams  back  over  woodland  and  main, 

As  an  infant,  ere  closing  its  eyelids  at  night, 
Looks  back  on  its  mother  again. 


JAMES   G.  CLARK.  97 

The  wood-robin  sings  at  my  door, 

And  her  song  is  the  sweetest  I  hear 
From  all  the  sweet  birds  that  incessantly  pour 

Their  notes  through  the  noon  of  the  year. 

'T  was  thus  in  my  boyhood  time — 

That  season  of  emerald  and  gold — 
Ere  the  storms  and  the  shadows  that  fall  on  our  prime 

Had  told  me  that  pleasures  grow  old. 

I  loved  in  the  warm  summer  eves 

To  recline  on  the  welcoming  sod, 
By  the  broad  spreading  temple  of  twilight  and  leaves 

Where  the  wood-robin  worshiped  her  God. 

I  knew  not  that  life  could  endure 

The  burden  it  beareth  to-day  ; 
And  I  felt  that  my  soul  was  as  happy  and  pure 

As  the  tone  of  the  wood-robin's  lay. 

O,  beautiful,  beautiful  youth, 

With  its  visions  of  hope  and  of  love ; 

How  cruel  is  life  to  reveal  us  the  truth 
That  peace  only  liveth  above. 

The  wood-robin  trills  the  same  tune 

From  her  thicket  in  garden  and  glen, 
And  the  landscape  and  sky  and  the  twilight  of  June 

Look  lovely  and  glowing  as  then. 

But  I  think  of  the  glories  that  fell 

In  the  harvest  of  sorrow  and  tears, 
Till  the  song  of  the  forest  bird  sounds  like  a  knell, 

Tolling  back  through  the  valley  of  years. 

Sweet  bird,  as  thou  singest  forlorn, 

Through  the  visions  that  rise  from  the  past, 
8 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

The  deep  of  the  future  is  purpling  with  morn, 
And  its  mystery  melting  at  last. 

I  know  that  the  splendor  of  youth 

Will  return  to  me  yet,  and  my  soul 
Will  float  in  the  sunlight  of  beauty  and  truth, 

Where  the  tides  of  the  Infinite  roll. 

O,  I  fain  would  arise  and  set  sail 

From  the  lowlands  of  trouble  and  pain  ; 

But  I  wait  on  the  shore  for  the  tarrying  gale, 
And  sigh  for  the  haven  in  vain. 

And  I  watch  for  the  ripples  to  play, 

And  tell  me  the  breezes  are  nigh, 
Like  a  sailor  who  longs  to  be  wafted  away, 

To  the  lands  that  lie  hid  in  the  sky. 

But  the  whip-poor-will  wails  on  the  moor. 

And  day  has  deserted  the  west ; 
The  moon  glimmers  down  thro'  the  vines  at  my  door 

And  the  robin  has  flown  to  her  nest. 

Adieu,  gentle  bird  ;  ere  the  sun 

Shall  line  the  green  forests  with  light, 

Thou  'It  wake  from  thy  slumber  more  merry  than  one 
Who  heard  thee  and  blessed  thee  to-night. 


MARY  F.  TUCKER. 

|BOUT  the  year  1854  two  poems  appeared  in 
The  National  Era — a  paper  that  had  the  honor 
of  introducing  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  and 
Gail  Hamilton  to  the  reading  public — which  soon  be- 
came popular,  and  which  have  since  periodically  gone 
the  rounds  of  the  press.  The  one  more  often  printed, 
perhaps,  was  the  following  : 

COMETH  A   BLESSING  DOWN. 

Not  to  the  man  of  dollars, 

Not  to  the  man  of  deeds ; 
Not  unto  craft  and  cunning, 

Not  unto  human  creeds  ; 
Not  to  the  one  whose  passion, 

Is  for  a  world's  renown, 
Not  in  a  form  of  fashion, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

Not  unto  land's  expansion, 

Not  to  the  miser's  chest, 
No.  to  the  princely  mansion, 

Not  to  the  blossomed  crest : 
Not  to  the  sordid  worldling, 

Not  to  the  knavish  clown, 
Not  to  the  haughty  tyrant, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 


3 00  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Not  to  the  folly-blinded, 

Not  to  the  steeped  in  shame, 
Not  to  the  carnal-minded, 

Not  to  unholy  fame  ; 
Not  in  neglect  of  duty, 

Not  to  the  jeweled  crown, 
Not  at  the  smile  of  beauty, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

But  to  the  one  whose  spirit 

Yearns  for  the  great  and  good  ; 
Unto  the  one  whose  store-house 

Yieldeth  the  hungry  food  ; 
Unto  the  one  who  labors, 

Fearless  of  foe  or  frown, 
Unto  the  kindly-hearted, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

Its  homely  truth  has  found  wide  recognition,  and 
may  have  moved  many  hearts  to  nobler  longings,  to 
freer  charity,  to  more  kindly  impulse.  The  other  is 
similar  in  style,  and  fully  as  practical  in  application. 
Those  who  have  not  read  it  elsewhere, — even  those  who 
have — will  thank  us  for  reproducing  it  here  : 

GOING  UP  AND  COMING  DOWN. 
This  is  a  simple  song,  't  is  true — 

My  songs  are  never  over-nice, — 
And  yet  I  '11  try  and  scatter  through 

A  little  pinch  of  good  advice. 
Then  listen,  pompous  friend,  and  learn 

To  never  boast  of  much  renown, 
For  fortune's  wheel  is  on  the  turn, 

And  some  go  up,  and  some  come  down. 


MAR  Y  F.    TUCKER,  I  o T 

I  know  a  vast  amount  of  stocks, 

A  vast  amount  of  pride  insures  ; 
But  Fate  has  picked  so  many  locks 

I  would  n't  like  to  warrant  yours. 
Remember,  then,  and  never  spurn 

The  one  whose  hand  is  hard  and  brown, 
For  he  is  likely  to  go  up, 

And  you  are  likely  to  come  down. 

Another  thing  you  will  agree, 

(The  truth  may  be  as  well  confessed) 
That  "  Codfish   Aristocracy  " 

Is  but  a  scaly  thing  at  best. 
And  Madame  in  her  robe  of  lace, 

And  Bridget  in  her  faded  gown, 
Both  represent  a  goodly  race, 

From  father  Adam  handed  down. 

Life  is  uncertain — full  of  change  ; 

Little  we  have  that  will  endure ; 
And  t'  were  a  doctrine  new  and  strange 

That  places  high  are  most  secure  ; 
And  if  the  fickle  goddess  smile, 

Yielding  the  scepter  and  the  crown, 
'T  is  only  for  a  little  while, 

Then  B.  goes  up  and  A.  comes  down. 

This  world,  for  all  of  us,  my  friend 

Hath  something  more  than  pounds  and  pence ; 
Then  let  me  humbly  recommend, 

A  little  use  of  common  sense. 
Thus  lay  all  pride  of  place  aside, 

And  have  a  care  on  whom  you  frown  ; 
For  fear  you  '11  see  him  going  up, 

When  you  are  only  coming  down. 


I02  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

The  author  of  these  two  poems  was  Mary  Frances 
Tyler,  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  small  in  figure,  with 
curling  hair  and  bright  gray  eyes,  living  in  Michigan. 
She  had  early  manifested  a  poetic  taste,  and,  though  so 
young,  had  written  considerably  for  local  papers.  Her 
first  published  poem  was  penned  when  she  was  but  ten 
years  old  ;  and  several  poems  written  between  her  thir- 
teenth and  fifteenth  years  attracted  considerable  atten- 
tion, and  drew  forth  complimentary  letters  from  distin- 
guished people. 

In  1856  Miss  Tyler  was  married  to  Dr.  E.  L. 
Tucker,  who  practiced  his  profession  in  Macon,  Mich., 
until  the  war  broke  out,  and  then  went  to  the  front  as 
Lieutenant  in  the  Fourth  Michigan  Cavalry.  He  died 
at  Chattanooga,  October  5th,  1863,  after  gallant  service 
— one  of  those  fallen  heroes  whom  the  country  lovingly 
remembers,— ^and  left  his  young  wife  a  widow,  with  three 
small  children  to  care  for.  Something  of  the  bereaved 
one's  loneliness  speaks  through  this  tender  tribute,  which 
was  written  for  The  Saturday  Evening  Post : 

INDIAN  SUMMER, 
Just  such  a  day  in  autumn, 

Hazy  and  soft  and  sweet, 
With  the  Indian  Summer  walking 

Abroad  with  her  sandaled  feet, 
Her  dusky  locks  disheveled, 

Her  dun  robes  trailing  about 
Just  such  a  dreamy,  golden  day, 

The  light  of  a  life  went  out 


MARY  F.   TUCKER.  103 

Afar  on  n  southern  hillside, 

Where  the  sycamore  branches  wave, 
Where  the  sweet  magnolias  blossom, 

They  hollowed  and  shaped  a  grave. 
Oh,  beautiful,  perished  darling  ! 

Oh,  tenderest  heart  and  true  ! 
If  only  its  narrow  chamber 

Had  folded  and  sheltered  two  ! 

Year  after  year  the  grasses 

Curtain  that  lowly  bed  ; 
Summers  garland  their  roses 

Over  the  precious  head : 
Softly  the  sentinel  cypress 

Weaves  with  the  mournful  yew  ; 
Would  that  their  whispering  branches 

Shielded  and  shadowed  two  ! 

Again  the  Indian  Summer 

Goeth  abroad  as  of  old, 
Bearing  her  gorgeous  banners, 

Crimson,  and  flame,  and  gold. 
But  alas  for  her  royal  beauty  ! 

She  is  girded  around  about 
With  the  weeds  of  an  awful  sorrow, 

For  the  light  of  a  life  gone  out. 

Several  years  ago  Mrs.  Tucker  removed  to  Omro, 
Wisconsin,  her  present  residence.  Always  writing  more 
or  less  for  publication,  her  life  is  still  a  retired  one,  and 
she  rather  shrinks  from  than  desires  recognition.  None 
of  her  later  efforts  have  met  with  such  popularity  as  has 
been  accorded  the  two  poems  specially  referred  to,  yet 


IO4 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


she  has  written  many  things  far  superior  to  those  in  real 
poetic  merit.  Her  recent  poems  show  increasing  deli- 
cacy of  thought  and  expression,  and  give  evidence  that 
these  years  of  womanly  devotion  to  the  child-life  in  her 
charge  are  bearing  worthy  fruit.  Very  daintily  done  is 
this,  which  first  appeared  in  The  Phrenological  Journal : 

A  PICTURE. 

I  want  to  make  a  picture  with  my  pen, 

And  though  the  unskilled  limner's  hand  may  blot, 
It  can  not  be  disguised,  for  there  is  not 

Another  like  it  in  the  world  of  men. 

A  face  of  faultless  beauty.     Every  line 

Princely  and  peerless  ;  royal-browed  and  fair, 
Framed  in  the  splendor  of  such  sun-touched  hair 

As  artists  copy,  making  art  divine. 

Clear  well-like  eyes,  whose  yearning  tenderness 
Proclaims  the  poet-passion,  strong  but  fine, 
And  more  bewildering  than  ancient  wine — 

Compared  with  them  the  very  stars  look  less. 

Nor  dazzling  ruby,  pearl,  nor  amethyst, 

Combine  the  beauty  of  the  perfect  mouth ; 
Dewy  and  fragrant  as  the  tropic  south, 

Oh,  sweetest  lips  that  ever  woman  kissed ! 

And  far  surpassing  symmetry  of  lines, 
The  rare  expression,  the  peculiar  grace, 
Lighting  it  all,  as  an  illumined  vase, 

Reflects  the  hidden  glory  it  enshrines. 

So  I  have  made  my  picture.     And  what  then 
If  it  hath  fallen  far  and  far  below 


MARY F.   TUCKER. 

The  grand  original  ?     Yet  this  I  know, 
But  one  is  like  it  in  the  world  of  men. 


105 


Mrs.  Tucker  has  been  editorially  connected  with 
several  local  journals,  and  displays  much  ability  as  a 
writer  of  prose.  Several  stories  from  her  pen  have  been 
well  received.  A  member  of  no  church,  she  has  long 
been  to  some  extent  identified  with  the  Universalist  de- 
nomination, having  contributed  considerably  to  its  pub- 
lications, and  uniformly  worshiping  with  it.  But  though 
making  no  profession  of  religion,  not  a  little  that  she 
writes  is  warm  with  religious  feeling,  and  breathes  of  a 
heart  religiously  inclined.  The  following  is  a  compre- 
hensive recognition  of  divine  presence  : 

THOU. 

Father,  O  Father !  surrounded  with  ills, 
Dangers  beset  me,  and  evils  betide, 
Yet  through  the  valleys,  and  over  the  hills, 
Thou  art  my  guide  ! 

Wearily  bearing  my  burden  of  woe  ! 

Helpless  humanity,  sorely  distressed  ; 
On  toward  the  heavenly  mansions  I  go, 
Thou  art  my  rest ! 

When  through  the  stormy  and  perilous  night, 

Feebly  with  faltering  footsteps,  I  grope ; 
Having  no  refuge,  nor  shelter,  nor  light  ; 
Thou  art  my  hope  ! 

What  though  the  woi'ld  my  deficiency  knows, 
What  though  it  cavil,  and  censure  and  laugh  ; 


io6  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Safe  and  securely  on  Thee  I  repose, 
Thou  art  my  staff ! 

When  by  the  phantoms  of  evil  pursued, 

Fainting  I  fall,  overpowered  at  length ; 
Yet  shall  I  rise,  in  Thy  spirit  renewed, 
Thou  art  my  strength  ! 

Down  in  the  dreary  and  desolate  tomb, 
Low  lie  my  perishing  idols  in  dust  ; 
Yet  through  bereavement,  and  anguish,  and  gloom, 
Thou  art  my  trust ! 

Pale  are  the  brows,  and  the  lips  I  have  pressed, 

Pulseless  the  hearts  that  had  loved  to  the  end ; 
Lord !  Thou  hast  taken  them  into  Thy  rest, 
Thou  art  my  friend  ! 

Life  hath  no  beauty  my  heart  to  ensnare, 

Death  hath  no  terror  my  soul  to  appall ; 
Hid  in  Thy  love's  overshadowing  care, 
Thou  art  my  all  ! 

In  all  save  that  part  of  the  first  stanza  which  un- 
qualifiedly asserts  universal  salvation,  the  following, 
Originally  contributed  to  The  Lady's  Friend,  will  find 
sympathetic  response  from  all  who  put  forth  prayer : 

INVOCA  TION 

Oh !  Thou  most  kind  and  merciful !  who  never 
Shut  out  a  wanderer  from  the  fold  forever ; 

Look  from  the  bastions  of  the  shining  city, 
In  tender  pity. 


MARY  F.   TUCKER.  107 

Though  we  have  walked  in  crooked  ways  forbidden, 
Keeping  the  talent  which  Thou  gavest  hidden  ; 

Now  when  the  shadows  on  our  pathway  lengthen, 
Sustain  and  strengthen 

Though  we  have  wandered  wilfully  and  blindly, 
Treating  the  spirit  of  Thy  love  unkindly, 

Yet  when  the  night  and  darkness  overtake  us, 
Do  not  forsake  us. 

Tempted  and  tried,  and  tossed,  and  torn,  and  shaken, 
Blindly  deceived,  misguided  and  mistaken, 

Snares  do  beset,  and  dire  ills  befall  us, 
Oh  disenthrall  us ! 

Given  to  doubting  and  to  unbelieving, 

The  right  rejecting,  and  the  wrong  receiving, 

Lord,  we  are  weak  !  yet  grant  us  with  our  weakness 
Patience  and  meekness. 

Led  by  false  hopes,  allured  by  beacon  flashes, 
Finding  at  length  but  only  dust  and  ashes, 
Help  us  to  see  of  earthly  things  the  fleetness, 
The  incompleteness. 

Since  the  dear  idols  whom  we  love  and  cherish, 
Fall  to  the  earth  and  fade,  and  fail,  and  perish, 
Grant  in  the  awful  anguish  of  affliction, 
Thy  benediction. 

Bereaved  and  weary,  worn  with  heavy  trials, 
With  keen  reproaches,  and  with  sore  denials  ; 

Through  tribulations,  tempest,  flood  and  fire, 
Lead  us  up  higher. 

Teach  us  our  duty,  give  us  strength  to  do  it ; 
Show  us  the  way,  and  help  us  to  pursue  it ; 


I08  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Strengthen  our  purpose,  aid  our  weak  endeavor, 
Keep  us  forever ! 

In  exquisite  simplicity  of  tenderness,  blent  with  rare 
strength  of  feeling,  the  following  is  not  often  excelled. 
The  passion  which  it  only  half  voices  is  subdued,  but 
intense  • 

i  LOVE  HIM  so. 

I  said  no  love  shall  my  thought  divide, 

I  will  put  the  hindering  thing  aside ; 

Its  idle  dreams  to  the  weak  belong, 

There  are  nobler  aims  for  the  brave  and  strong, 

Yet  ever  and  always  a  sweet  refrain 

Is  ringing  and  singing  through  heart  and  brain, 

A  melody  tender,  and  soft,  and  low, 

I  love  him  so  !  I  love  him  so  ! 

A  thousand  lovers  their  loves  forget, 
I  will  rise  above  and  beyond  it  yet ; 
There  are  too  many  faces  under  the  sun 
To  live  in  the  smiles  of  but  only  one, 
Yet  ever  and  always,  and  everywhere, 
Beautiful  eyes  and  sun-touched  hair 
Follow  and  find  me  wherever  I  go, 
I  love  him  so  !  I  love  him  so ! 

There  are  beacon-lights  on  the  hills  of  fame, 
Honor  and  praise  for  the  poet's  name  ; 
Chaplet  of  bay,  and  Laurel  crown, 
A  grand  applause  and  a  great  renown. 
Yet  I  sometimes  think  I  would  gladly  miss 
Them  all,  and  more,  for  a  single  kiss, 
And  a  moment's  rest  in  the  arms  I  know, 
I  love  him  so  !  I  love  him  so  ! 


J.    W.    BARKER. 

time  of  war  was  not  largely  productive  of 
popular  verse.  Very  much  newspaper  poetry 
appeared  in  those  four  years,  it  is  true,  but 
comparatively  little  of  it  was  caught  up  and  carried  over 
the  land.  A  few  ringing  lyrics  met  recognition,  were 
read  and  sung  everywhere,  and  will  live  because  they  de- 
serve to  live.  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe's  "Battle  Hymn 
of  the  Republic"  was  one  of  these.  "Fremont's  Battle 
Hymn,"  by  James  G.  Clark,  was  another.  A  number  of 
fugitive  pieces,  incidental  in  character,  became  the  waifs 
of  our  war  literature,  and  only  ceased  their  journeyings 
as  waifs  because  they  were  incidental,  and  born  of  the 
time,  and  therefore  lost  interest  when  the  time  had  gone 
by.  Of  this  number  was  the  following,  entitled 

PICKING  LINT. 

Plying  the  busy  fingers 

Over  the  vestments  old, 
Not  with  the  weary  needle, 

Not  for  grains  of  gold  ; 
Thinking  of  fainting  heroes, 

Out  in  the  dreary  night, 
Smitten  in  freedom's  battle, 

First  in  the  gallant  fight : 


IIO  WA IFS  A ND   THEIR  A  U  THOR S. 

Bright  are  the  jewels  from  love's  deep  mint, 
God  blesses  the  fingers  while  picking  lint. 

Quicker — the  blood  is  flowing. 

Hundreds  were  slain  to-day  ; 
Every  warm  pulsation 

Is  stealing  the  life  away. 
"  An  hundred  threads  a  minute, 

An  hundred  drops  of  gore," 
Is  the  sad  and  thrilling  measure 
We  have  not  learned  before  ; 
But  the  shadows  are  wearing  a  silver  tint, 
God  blesses  the  fingers  while  picking  lint. 

We  have  clad  the  fallen  heroes 

With  garments  our  hands  have  made, 
By  the  lint  we  now  are  picking 

Shall  the  fearful  tide  be  stayed  ; 
We  lift  our  hearts  to  heaven, 

And  our  Father's  blessing  crave — • 
God  bless  our  smitten  country, 

Remember  the  fallen  brave — 
O  bright  are  the  jewels  from  love's  deep  mint, 
God  blesses  the  fingers  while  picking  lint. 

The  poem  was  written  by  a  gentleman  more  widely 
known  as  a  teacher  than  as  a  poet — Prof.  J.  W.  Barker. 

Prof.  Barker  has  written  much  in  verse,  and  several 
of  his  productions  have  been  extensively  copied.  He  has 
written  upon  almost  every  sort  of  subject,  but  in  general 
chooses  a  common-place  theme,  and  treats  it  simply, 
without  effort,  and  without  especial  heed  to  poetic  finish. 
From  his  many  poems  it  is  almost  impossible  to  select 


J  W.     BARKER. 


Ill 

one  or  two  that  pre-eminently  illustrate  his  habit  of  po- 
etical thought.     The  waif  of  his  now  current  is 

BY-AND-BY. 

There's  a  little  mischief-maker 

That  is  slealing  half  our  bliss, 
Sketching  pictures  in  a  dreamland 

That  are  never  seen  in  this  ; 
Dashing  from  our  lips  the  pleasure 

Of  the  present,  while  we  sigh : 
You  may  know  this  mischief-maker, 

For  his  name  is  "  By-and-By." 

He  is  sitting  by  our  hearthstones 

"With  his  sly,  bewitching  glance, 
Whispering  of  the  coming  morrow 

As  the  social  hours  advance  ; 
Loitering  'mid  our  calm  reflections, 

Hiding  forms  of  beauty  nigh  : — 
He  's  a  smooth,  deceitful  fellow, 

This  enchanter,  "  By-and-By." 

You  may  know  him  by  his  wincing, 

By  his  careless,  sportive  air ; 
By  his  sly,  obtrusive  presence, 

That  is  straying  everywhere 
By  the  tr*ophies  that  he  gathers 

Where  his  somber  victims  lie ; 
For  a  bold,  determined  fellow 

Is  this  conqueror,  "  By-and-By." 

When  the  calls  of  duty  haunt  us, 
And  the  present  seems  to  be 
All  the  time  that  ever  mortals 


II2  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Snatch  from  dark  eternity, 
Then  a  fairy  hand  seems  painting 

Pictures  on  a  distant  sky  ; 
For  a  cunning  little  artist 

Is  the  fairy  "  By-and-By." 

"  By-and-By"  the  wind  is  singing; 
"  By-and-By  "  the  heart  replies  ; 
But  the  phantom,  just  before  us, 

Ere  we  grasp  it,  ever  flies. 
List  not  to  the  idle  charmer, 

Scorn  the  very  specious  lie  ; 
Only  in  the  fancy  liveth 

This  deceiver,  "  By-and-By." 

Pathetically  simple  is  the  following,  which  has  been 
often  copied  : 

UNDER  THE  SNOW. 

Down  in  the  valley  under  the  hill, 
Droppeth  the  snow-flakes  white  and  still, 
Wrapping  the  violet,  near  my  feet, 
Cold  and  stiff  in  its  winding  sheet. 
Many,  alas  !  are  the  flowers  that  lie, 
Cold  and  pale,  'neath  the  winter  sky, 
Many  the  dear  ones  sleeping  low 
Under  the  sheet  of  driven  snow.- 

Press  it  gently,  the  precious  mound — 
Pure  and  white  be  it  ever  found  ; 
Holy  angels  their  vigils  keep 
Where  my  darling  was  laid  in  sleep. 
Cold  and  wintry  the  earth  may  be, 
Yet  my  spirit  will  stay  with  thee ; 


J.   W.  BARKER.  II3 

Morning  and  night  my  heart  will  go 
Out  in  the  valley  under  the  snow. 

When  through  the  wintry  vales  of  time 
Wanders  the  spring  of  that  heavenly  clime, 
When  these  fetters  of  sin  and  death 
Melt  away  in  its  genial  breath — 
When  the  light  from  the  "  golden  hills" 
Earth's  drear  winter  with  gladness  thrills, 
Precious  flowers  will  bloom,  I  know, 
Lifeless  now  'neath  the  winter  snow. 

As  we  have  said,  Prof.  Barker  generally  chooses 
common-place  themes,  and  how  he  treats  them  this 
will  fairly  show: 

DARNING    STOCKINGS. 

Were  there  never  a  standing  record, 

To  measure  time's  rapid  flight, 
Were  there  never  a  clock  or  dial, 

I  should  know  it  were  Saturday  night ; 
I  should  know  by  the  pile  of  stockings 

In  the  basket  on  the  floor, 
That  the  "  six  days'  work  "  was  ended, 

And  another  week  was  o'er ; 

And  the  balls  upon  the  table 

Of  white  and  twisted  yarn, 
The  needle,  smooth  and  shining, 

That  was  only  made  to  "darn  ;" 
And  the  patient,  busy  stitching, 

With  the  weaving  to  and  fro, 
While  a  careful  eye  is  watching 

For  the  rents  in  heel  and  toe. 

9 


!  1 4  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

And  every  breach  is  mended 

In  a  manner  most  complete — 
A  dozen,  neat  and  tidy, 

For  as  many  busy  feet ; 
Then  off  in  the  quiet  dreamland 

With  a  spirit  gentle  and  light, 
The  pale  and  thoughtful  watcher 

Is  welcoming  Saturday  night. 

Let  us  learn  from  darning  stockings 

A  lesson  of  patient  love, 
From  the  midst  of  the  selfish  shadows 

Let  our  spirits  mount  above  ; 
The  children  of  woe,  we  '11  befriend  them, 

Whoever  the  sufferers  be, 
We  '11  seek  for  their  faults  but  to  mend  them 

With  "  stitchings  "  of  charity. 

Prof.  Barker  is  yet  on  the  morning  side  of  fifty. 
He  was  born  near  the  eastern  shore  of  Lake  Cham- 
plain,,  in  Vermont.  His  father  was  Nathan  B.  Barker, 
of  the  real  Puritan  stock — fought  in  the  war  of  1812— 
while  his  father  was  a  Green  Mountain  Boy,  of  revolu- 
tionary memory.  It  was  in  New  Hampshire,  whither 
his  parents  had  removed,  that  Prof.  Barker  began  his 
school  life,  and  there  he  fitted  for  college,  entering  the 
school-room  though,  if  we  mistake  not,  instead  of  col- 
lege halls.  In  1845  he  came  to  Western  New  York,  and 
in  this  section  has  most  of  his  subsequent  life  been 
spent,  behind  the  teacher's  desk,  or  in  the  editor's  sanc- 
tum. For  the  past  eight  or  ten  years  he  has  been  fre- 


J.    W.  BARKER.  1I5 

quently  engaged  in  conducting  Teachers'  Institutes    un- 
der appointment  by  the  State  Superintendent. 

As  a  teacher  Prof.  Barker  has  been  uniformly  suc- 
cessful, and  in  the  profession  of  teaching  he  takes  high 
rank.  Few  men  have  more  friends  among  the  teachers 
of  the  State  than  has  he.  The  fact  that  he  was  elected 
President  of  the  State  Teachers'  Association  in  1868, 
testifies  to  his  popularity.  He  has  three  times  read  the 
annual  poem  before  this  Association,  with  marked  ac- 
ceptance. One  of  these  annual  productions,  entitled 
"Flats  and  Sharps,"  has  been  delivered  by  him  on  sev- 
eral other  public  occasions.  He  has  often  read  poems 
before  literary  societies.  In  1861  he  appeared,  as  the 
poet,  before  certain  societies  of  Hillsdale  College,  Mich., 
at  their  commencement  gathering,  and  on  commence- 
ment day  the  college  gave  him  the  degree  of  "A.  M." 

Prof.  Barker  took  to  writing  very  young,  and  when 
sixteen  first  enjoyed  the  sight  of  some  of  his  verses  in 
print.  They  were  published  in  The  Farmers'  Cabinet,  a 
paper  printed  at  Amherst,  N.  H. ,  in  the  office  in  which 
Horace  Greeley  learned  his  trade.  Since  then  his 
poems  have  been  very  numerous,  and  have  appeared  in 
various  newspapers  and  magazines,  the  Buffalo  Courier, 
of  late  years,  being  his  favorite  medium  of  publication. 
He  has  contributed  several  poems  to  The  Rural  Home, 
one  of  which  he  has  rarely  excelled : 


!  r  6  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

MORNING'S  ADVENT. 

Though  long  be  the  darkness,  and  dreary 

The  story  the  night  winds  may  tell, — 
O  the  shadows  and  mists  from  the  mountains 

The  coming  of  morn  will  dispel ! 
We  are  nearing  the  beautiful  morning, 

That  springs  from  the  night  of  the  years, 
And  the  sunlight,  so  mellow  and  golden, 

Will  drink  all  the  dew  of  our  tears. 

We  grope  in  the  midst  of  the  shadows, 

And  look  for  the  prints  by  the  shore, 
Of  feet  that  have  passed  the  "  dark  river," 

And  shall  walk  in  the  darkness  no  more  ; 
In  the  glow  of  the  glimmering  starlight, 

We  can  travel  the  wearisome  way, 
And  we  know  that  the  deeper  the  darkness, 

The  nearer  the  dawn  of  the  day. 

The  whispers  of  spring  will  awaken 

The  dream  of  the  redolent  hours, 
And  the  touch  of  the  beautiful  sunlight 

Will  open  the  tombs  of  the  flowers  ; 
We  shall  see  from  that  summit  of  glory 

The  night  and  the  clouds  roll  away  ; 
And  the  billows  that  sweep  the  dark  ocean, 

Are  bearing  us  oh  to-  the  day  ! 

Prof.  Barker  is  a  ready  writer  of  prose,  forcible, 
pointed,  and  terse.  Doubtless  the  sanctum's  discipline 
has  helped  him  in  this  respect.  He  has  done  a  great 
deal  of  editorial  work.  For  six  years  he  was  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  New  York  Teacher,  Three  years  he  as 


}f.    W.  BARKER.  I  x  7 

sisted  in  editing  The  Christian  Freeman,  printed  in 
Chicago.  Supplementing  his  school  duties  he  has  gen- 
erally furnished  correspondence  for  one  or  more  papers, 
use  of  the  pen  being  his  recreation.  During  the  war  he 
purchased  an  interest  in  the  Daily  Journal  and  Courier, 
and  Weekly  Intelligencer,  at  Lockport,  and  became  co- 
editor  thereof.  After  three  years  of  active  journalistic 
labor,  in  which  he  made  the  daily  and  weekly  issues  of 
those  papers  strongly  felt  on  the  Union  side,  fire  came, 
destroying  their  office  and  all  its  contents,  and  ruining 
him  financially.  Incendiarism  did  it,  as  was  supposed, 
prompted  by  distaste  for  his  strong  loyal  utterances. 

His  accumulations  gone,  Prof.  Barker  resumed 
teaching — in  Buffalo,  if  we  mistake  not,  where  he  now 
resides, — and  so  the  editorial  profession  lost  a  worthy 
member,  and  that  of  teaching  won  back  one  of  its  best. 
He  has  written  much  upon  educational  topics,  and  all 
that  he  writes  is  characterized  by  comprehensiveness  of 
thought,  liberality  of  ideas,  and  vigor  of  expression, 
joined  to  practical  knowledge  and  native  common  sense. 

Prof.  Barker  loves  freedom,  progression,  truth,  as 
does  every  man  of  poetic  feeling.  He  is  hopeful.  One 
of  his  war  pieces  closed  thus  : 

Up  through  the  battle  and  the  storm 
The  world  is  marching  to  tfhe  day 

When  vile  oppression's  fiendish  form- 
Shall  vanish  in  the  strife  away  ; 


XI8  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

When  light  shall  melt  the  frozen  bars 
That  shut  from  day  the  human  soul, 

And,  heard  no  more  the  strife  of  wars, 

The  Right  shall  hold  supreme  control  ; 

But  know  by  fire,  severely  tried, 

The  gold  from  dross  is  purified. 

Every  poet  has  sentimentalized  over  "what  we 
might  have  been."  In  a  poem  bearing  that  title  Prof. 
Barker  thus  expressed  himself: 

The  ghost  of  every  murdered  hour, 

Clad  in  its  dread  array, 
Darts  ever  'mid  our  fairest  walks 

To  steal  our  joys  away. 


O  happy  is  the  human  soul 

Amid  this  world  of  sin, 
That  never  sees  the  dreary  wrecks 

Of  what  it  might  have  been. 

Prof.  Barker  is  a  useful  man  in  community,  —  active, 
full  of  good  words  and  works.  He  has  long  been  a 
member  of  a  Free  Baptist  Church,  and  a  zealous  servant 
in  the  Sunday  School.  We  have  room  for  but  one  more 
specimen  of  his  verse,  —  on 

PURPOSE. 

Far  back  in  the  realm  of  the  ages, 

When  the  stars  of  the  morning  sung, 
We  are  told,  in  the  lore  of  the  sages, 


J.    W.  BARKER.  119 

That  this  gray  old  earth  was  young  ; 
That  it  sprang  from  the  womb  of  chaos 

At  the  feet  of  its  God, 
And  the  glowing  depth  of  azure, 

Was  the  shining  path  it  trod. 

That  the  night  slept  on  the  waters, 

And  the  air  was  hushed  and  still, 
That  the  morning  never  painted 

The  purple  tinted  hill ; 
That  the  sunny  spring  came  never, 

Or  the  autumn's  golden  prime, 
But  the  cold  and  rayless  winter 

Was  the  pendulum  of  time. 
O  the  gloom  of  that  mystic  darkness, 

O  the  measure  of  those  years, 
When  the  depth  of  depths  resounded 

With  the  "  music  of  the  spheres  !  " 

But  through  those  dreary  chambers, 

There  rang  a  mighty  word, 
The  earth  with  life  responded, 

And  the  startled  waters  heard  ; 
'T  was  the  muttering  of  the  earthquake, 

And  it  plowed  the  earth  and  sky, 
And  over  the  dismal  waters, 

It  piled  the  furrows  high. 

The  mountain  and  the  valley 

Lay  in  their  quiet  sleep, 
Till  the  sun  lapped  up  the  waters 

From  the  hollows  of  the  deep, 
Till  the  wind  breathed  in  its  gladness 

From  off  the  swelling  strand, 


120  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

And  scattered  the  generous  showers 
Athwart  the  thirsty  land. 

Then  the  seeds  of  new-born  beauty 

Seem  scattered  far  and  near, 
And  the  spring  grows  soft  and  radiant, 

And  the  summer  flowers  appear 
The  autumn,  ripe  and  golden 

Lies  smiling  on  the  plain, 
And  the  hill-tops  and  the  forests 

Join  in  the  glad  refrain  ; 

And  out  of  the  realm  of  ages, 

And  over  the  shadows  of  night, 
There  springeth  a  new  creation, 

There  blossoms  a  world  of  light ; 
And  ever  the  spring  hath  music, 

And  ever  the  summer  a  bloom. 
That  laugh  at  the  boast  of  winter, 

And  scatter  a  sweet  perfume. 

Then  what  if  the  spring  time  linger? 

Or  what  if  the  night  be  long  ? 
And  what  if  the  muttering  earthquake, 

Be  the  chorus  of  my  song  ? 
I  know  that  the  morning  cometh, 

I  know  there's  a  realm  of  bliss, 
And  a  life  of  joy  and  beauty 

Will  blossom  out  of  this. 


1  Then  what  if  the  spring-time  linger? 
Or  what  if  the  night  be  long?  " 


[Page  1 20. 


M.  A.  KIDDER. 

|OW  many  sympathetic  souls  there  are  !  souls 
full  of  hope  and  good  cheer  for  all  their  kind — 
souls  with  a  strong  faith  in  God,  such  as  can 
sing  amid  sorrow,  and  see  blessings  through  disguise  of 
pain,  and  be  glad  whatever  come.  Ever  since  David 
chanted  psalms  in  the  night,  humanity  has  had  its  sweet 
hymnal  for  twilight  seasons,  as  well  as  for  brighter  times  ; 
and  for  every  down-cast  heart,  in  doubt  and  struggling, 
perplexed  and  questioning  as  to  the  end,  discouraged  and 
ready  to  faint,  torn  and  bleeding,  it  may  be,  song  has 
been  fruitful  of  blessing.  It  is  soothing  as  balm ;  it 
mollifies  like  an  ointment.  Men  listen  for  it  as  for  a 
promise,  and  are  comforted  with  the  hearing. 

Among  the  bits  of  melody  one  oftenest  hears  by  the 
way,  is  this  entitled 

THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 

There  is  many  a  vest  in  the  road  of  life, 

If  we  only  would  stop  to  take  it, 
And  many  a  tone  from  the  better  land, 

If  the  querulous  heart  would  wake  it ! 
To  the  sunny  soul  that  is  full  of  hope, 

And  whose  beautiful  trust  ne'er  faileth, 
The  grass  is  green  and  the  flowers  are  bright, 

Though  the  wintry  storm  prevaileth. 


122  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Better  to  hope  though  the  clouds  hang  low, 

And  to  keep  the  eyes  still  lifted  ; 
For  the  sweet  blue  sky  will  soon  peep  through 

When  the  ominous  clouds  are  rifted  ! 
There  was  never  a  night  without  a  day, 

Or  an  evening  without  a  morning  ; 
And  the  darkest  hour,  as  the  proverb  goes, 

Is  the  hour  before  the  dawning. 

There  is  many  a  gem  in  the  path  of  life, 

Which  we  pass  in  our  idle  pleasure, 
That  is  richer  far  than  the  jeweled  crown, 

Or  the  miser's  hoarded  treasure. 
It  may  be  the  love  of  a  little  child, 

Or  a  mother's  prayers  to  heaven, 
Or  only  a  beggar's  grateful  thanks 

For  a  cup  of  water  given. 

Better  to  weav<»  in  the  web  of  life 

A  bright  and  golden  filling, 
And  to  do  God's  will  with  a  ready  heart, 

And  hands  that  are  swift  and  willing, 
Than  to  snap  the  delicate,  slender  threads 

Of  our  curious  lives  asunder, 
And  then  blame  heaven  for  the  tangled  ends, 

And  sit  and  grieve,  and  wonder. 

Who  first  sang  it  ?  We  asked  the  question  over  and 
over  before  it  found  answer.  A  long  time  we  saw  the 
poem  in  newspapers  with  no  author's  name  attached. 
Later  on  it  appeared  credited  to  Charles  Mackay ;  but 
some  intuition  told  us  Mr.  Mackay  was  not  entitled  to 
such  credit.  Finally  we  came  to  know  the  facts  about 
its  authorship,  and  somewhat  concerning  its  author. 


M.  A.  BIDDER.  j23 

The  particular  Waif  of  this  chapter  was  written  by 
Mrs.  M.  A.  Kidder,  whose  name  is  often  seen  in  Sunday 
School  Singing  Books.  Where  it  first  saw  the  light  of 
print  we  can  not  say,  or  when  it  originally  appeared. 
Mrs.  Kidder  is  a  lady  quite  well  along  in  life,  who  sup- 
ports herself  through  literary  effort,  mainly  of  the  rhyth- 
mic order.  Possessed  of  an  extremely  sympathetic  na- 
ture, and  a  natural  faith  in  Divine  mercy  and  goodness, 
she  writes  such  yerses  as  these  we  have  quoted,  out  of  a 
full  heart  and  abundant  experience. 

Born  in  Boston,  Mass. ,  and  .growing  up  to  woman- 
hood in  Boston's  literary  atmosphere,  she  early  took  to 
writing  for  local  periodicals,  and  continued  thus  writing, 
for  the  pure  love  of  it,  year  after  year.  One  of  her 
earlier  pieces  we  remember  singing  to  a  sad  little  melody, 
nearly  a  score  of  years  ago,  and  the  strains  haunt  us 
even  now.  It  was  an  exhortation  to  mothers,  and  thus 
it  ran  : 

WATCH \  MOTHER. 

Mother !  watch  the  little  feet, 

Climbing  o'er  the  garden  wall, 
Bounding  through  the  busy  street, 

Ranging  cellar,  shed  and  hall. 
Never  count  the  moments  lost, 
Never  mind  the  time  it  cost, 
Little  feet  will  go  astray, 
Guide  them,  mother,  while  you  may 

Mother  !  watch  the  little  hands, 
Picking  berries  by  the  way, 


I  24  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Making  houses  in  the  sands; 

Tossing  up  the  fragrant  hay. 
Never  dare  the  question  ask, 
"  Why  to  me  the  weary  task  ?  " 
These  same  little  hands  may  prove 
Messengers  of  light  and  love. 

Mother  !  watch  the  little  tongue — 

Prattling  eloquent  and  mild, 
What  is  said  and  what  is  sung, 

By  the  happy  joyous  child. 
Catch  the  word  while  yet  unspoken, 
Stop  the  vow  before  't  is  broken  ; 
This  same  tongue  may  yet  proclaim 
Blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name. 

Mother !  watch  the  little  heart 

Beating  soft  and  warm  for  you  ; 
Wholesome  lessons  now  impart  ; 

Keep,  O  keep,  the  young  heart  true 
While  extracting  every  weed, 
Sowing  good  and  precious  seed, 
Harvest  rich  you  then  may  see, 
Ripening  for  eternity. 

Mrs.  Skidder  received  the  first  money  ever  paid  her 
for  writing,  of  Nathaniel  Willis,  father  of  N.  P.  Willis, 
and  well  known  for  almost  half  a  century  in  periodical 
literature.  That  was  thirty  years  ago.  When  war  came, 
her  husband,  Ellis  U.  Kidder,  entered  the  army  of  the 
Union,  and  died  in  defense  of  his  country.  Left  with 
three  children  to  care  for,  what  had  been  largely  a  recre- 
ation became  altogether  earnest  work,  and  during  the 


M.  A.  KIDDER. 


I25 


past  decade  she  has  written  much  for  song  books  and  the 
newspapers,  well  encouraged  by  editors  in  Boston  and 
New  York,  and  by  the  popularity  of  her  productions. 
One  child  was  drowned,  and  her  family  now  numbers 
one  son,  of  twenty-five  years,  and  a  fair  daughter,  also  in 
her  twenties. 

One  of  Mrs.  Kidder's  songs,  entitled  ''Victory  at 
Last,  "  was  sung  at  Fort  Sumter  when  they  raised  the  old 
flag  on  its  shattered  walls.  Of  her  numerous  pieces,  but 
a  few  are  at  our  hand  from  which  to  select  in  making  up 
this  article,  yet  perhaps  those  we  shall  give  of  the  few 
measure  her  style  of  thought,  and  the  range  of  her 
poetic  art,  as  well  as  any  others  might.  She  is  practical 
rather  than  imaginative.  In  illustration  of  the  fact,  we 
give 

BUYING  CROWN  JEWELS. 

Plucking  a  thorn  from  the  traveler's  path, 
Turning  away  a  neighbor's  wrath  ; 
Stretching  a  hand  toward  the  needy  soul, 
Pointing  the  way  to  the  distant  goal ; 
Lifting  a  fallen  brother  up, 
Sweetening  the  draught  in  the  bitter  cup  ; 
Planting  sweet  flowers  on  a  lonely  grave, 
Seeking  a  single  soul  to  save  ; 
Sowing  the  seed  'gainst  the  Spring-tide  rain, 
Watching  in  love  by  the  bed  of  pain  ; 
Heeding  the  orphan's  plaintive  cry, 
Wiping  the  tears  from  sorrow's  eye ; 
Shunning  to  act  the  liar's  part, 


126  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Loving  the  truth  with  a  fervent  heart , 
Guarding  from  ill  a  friend's  good  name, 
Burying  deep  the  tale  of  shame  ; 
Working  to  earn  the  bread  we  eat, 
Climbing  the  hill  with  patient  feet  ; 
Dealing  with  men  in  an  honest  way, 
Seeing  Heaven's  light  in  the  darkest  day  ; 
Bidding  the  poor  to  the  ample  feast, 
Treating  with  kindness  the  poor  dumb  beast  ; 
Hoping  for  all  things  good  and  true, 
Trusting  to  God  in  what  we  do 
Earning  true  riches  as  on  we  go — 
Buying  crown  jewels  as  pure  as  snow. 

Quite  different  in  versification,  more  forcible  it  may 
be,  is  this  which  questions 

WHO  MISSES  HIM. 

Gone  !  and  who  misses  him  ? 

Who,  with  heart  swelling, 
Softly  and  mournfully 

Passes  his  dwelling  ? 
Who  'monor  them  all 

Felt  the  strong  life-cord  sever? 
Who,  of  the  throng 

That  is  surging  forever? 

Gone  !  and  who  misses  him  ? 

Friends,  perhaps  neighbors, 
Sigh  at  his  funeral  ; 

Speak  of  his  labors  ; 
Strew  on  his  grave 

A  few  blossoms  of  beauty  ; 


M.  A.  KIDDER. 

Read  his  white  headstone, 
Then  turn  to  their  duty  ! 

Gone  !  and  who  misses  him 

In  the  great  city  ? 
Who,  from  the  beggar 

That  'wakened  his  pity, 
E'en  to  the  many. 

That  courted  his  favor, 
Eating  the  salt 

That  has  now  lost  its  savor  ? 

Gone  !  and  who  misses  him  ? 

Raise  the  latch  lightly, 
Enter  the  darkened  room 

Where  he  slept  nig'ntly. 
There  sits  his  weeping  wife, 

Sister  and  bv'.ner  ; 
There  are  his  little  ones, 

There  kneels  his  mother  ! 

Ask  not  who  misses  him  — 

Him  who  though  lowly, 
Owned  the  sweet  treasure 

That  makes  home  so  holy. 
Grander  than  monuments, 

Brighter  than  fame, 
Are  their  rich  offerings 

Reared  to  his  name. 


Believing,  as  she  once  expressed  it  to  us,  that 
"every  day  something  beautiful  comes  into  our  lives,  if 
we  would  but  sift  it  out  from  the  every-day  trials,  "  Mrs. 


I28  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Kidder  is  doing  a  sort  of  home-mission  work  in  the 
hearts  of  mankind.  There  is  great  need.  False  ideas 
of  what  life  is  or  ought  to  be  are  too  common.  They 
may  give  way  to  truth,  coming  on  wings  of  song.  May 
the  truth  come  to  each  soul,  and  abide  therein  ! 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 

|HARLES    DICKENS     never    wrote    anything 
more    exquisitely   tender   than    the   following, 
which,  though  generally  appearing  as  a  waif, 
has  been  very  widely  attributed  to  him  : 

THE  CHILDREN. 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  da  •  is  dismissed, 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace  ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ' 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony, 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild  ; 
Oh  !  there  's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households  ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise  ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes  ; 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven — 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild  ; 
And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child  ! 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  fi-om  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself  ; 
Ah  !   a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod  ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God  ; 
My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness, 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule  ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  Autumn, 
To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more  ; 


1  There  are  idols  ot  heart  and  ot  households  ; 
They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise."  Page  130. 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON.  13! 

Ah !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones, 
That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 

I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights"  and  the  kisses, 
And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 

The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 
That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street  ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  ot  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says,  "  The  school  is  dismissed  ! 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  ' 

Dickens  wrote  many  beautiful  things,  in  that  poeti- 
cal prose  into  which  he  so  easily  and  so  often  dropped, 
but  he  could  never  have  written  this,  any  more  than  we 
could  have  penned  ''David  Copperfield.  "  Certain 
minds  think  in  rhythm,  as  it  were,  by  instinct ;  and  one 
of  these  gave  us  "The  Children,  "  but  it  was  not  the 
mind  of  the  great  novelist.  At  times  the  prose  of 
Dickens  rose  to  a  height  that  threatened  to  burst  its  duller 
channels  into  song  :  but  he  was  notoriously  without  the 
faculty  of  versification  ;  and  excepting  the  song  of  "The 
Ivy  Green"  in  "Pickwick"  and  some  trifling  rhymes  in 
prose  form  in  the  "Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  he  never 
turned  a  passably  smooth  stanza  in  his  life.  Poetic 
thought  he  had,  of  course,  but  no  facility  of  rightly- 
poetic  execution, 


I32 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


"The  Children  "  was  written  by  a  partial  namesake 
of  the  great  story-teller — Charles  M.  Dickinson. 

Some  careless  compositor  may  have  been  originally 
responsible  for  the  mistaken  credit,  owing  to  the  similar- 
ity of  names,  as  Mr.  Dickinson  formerly  wrote  his  with- 
out the  "middle  letter."  When  the  sweet  poem  was 
penned — which  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1863 — its  au- 
thor was  a  schoolmaster  at  Havejstraw,  on  the  Hudson. 
He  had  to  meet  the  almost  universal  dislike  of  scholars 
to  writing  compositions,  and  he  chose  a  happy  way  of 
meeting  it,  by  proposing  to  write  something  himself,  to 
read  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  if  they  would  do  the  same. 
The  proposal  made  and  accepted,  the  teacher's  part  on 
the  programme  must  be  filled,  and  hence  we  have  "The 
Children,"  written  after  school  was  dismissed  on  Friday 
afternoon,  and  before  it  opened  on  the  following  morn- 
ing. The  verses  were  sent  to  a  Boston  paper  for  which 
Mr.  Dickinson  was  then  writing,  and  immediately  won 
their  way  to  popular  favor,  until  it  is  now  safe  to  say, 
there  is  scarcely  a  journal  between  the  two  oceans  that 
has  not  republished  them  more  than  once  in  the  twelve 
years  of  their  existence.  In  the  winter  of  1863-4  the 
poem  was  published  in  the  "School  Girl's  Garland/' a 
compilation  of  poetry  by  Mrs.  C.  M.  Kirkland,  and  has 
since  been  copied  into  several  other  collections  of  verse. 

This  is  the  simple  history  of  a  poem  so  pathetically, 
tenderly  beautiful  that  it  has  found  a  place  in  almost 
every  household  of  the  land,  has  been  extensively  copied 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON.  ^33 

in  Europe,  and  has  won  the  heart  of  every  true  teacher, 
as  it  has  the  admiration  of  all  readers,  by  its  delicate  ap- 
preciation of  youthful  possibilities,  its  close  sympathy 
with  childhood,  its  warm  love  for  childish  ways.  Simple 
as  the  poem  is,  it  holds  a  rare  sum  of  sweet  philosophy 
within  it.  Indeed,  the  mystery  of  part  of  Christ's  teach- 
ings seems  to  clarify  in  these  lines  : 

Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven, 
They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild, 

And  I  know  now  how  Jesus  could  liken 
The  Kingdom  of  God  to  a  child  ! 

Love  of  children  is  one  of  the  purest  elements  in 
human  nature,  and  it  fairly  glows  in  the  whole  poem. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  the  sympathetic  teacher  wrote  it  from 
the  fullness  of  his  heart, — wrote  it,  perhaps,  in  the 
school-room  itself,  whence  childish  forms  had  hardly 
vanished,  where  the  ring  of  childish  voices  had  hardly 
died  away,  and  with  every  token  of  childish  presence 
fresh  and  impressive. 

About  two  miles  from  the  lovely  little  village  of  Low- 
vine,  in  Lewis  County,  N.  Y.,  lifted  a  thousand  feet 
above  it,  and  overlooking  a  beauteous  prospect,  stands  a 
brown  old  farm-house,  in  which,  on  the  I5th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1842,  Charles  M.  Dickinson  was  born.  The  very 
surroundings  were  sufficient  to  beget  a  poet.  Nothing 
could  excel  the  view  within  ten  rods  of  the  old  hearth- 
stone. At  one's  feet  nestles  the  village  named ;  beyond 
it  trends  away  the  broad  Black  River  Valley,  the  river 


!34  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

winding  through  it  mile  after  mile,  like  a  cord  of  silver, 
with  every  variety  of  landscape,  field  and  forest ;  and 
further  still,  stretching  up  towards  the  eastern  horizon  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  sweeps  the  unbroken  forest  of 
John  Brown's  Tract,  with  the  dim  peaks  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  and  the  dimmer  summits  of  the  Green  Mountains, 
standing  like  sentinels  on  the  remotest  border. 

No  wonder  he  took  to  rhyming  at  the  early  age  of 
thirteen  years.  Nearly  all  his  published  poems  were 
written  in  the  three  years  preceding  his  departure  from 
home  in  the  spring  of  1860.  After  leaving  home  he  fol- 
lowed teaching  a  year  or  two,  then  gave  himself  to  lit- 
erary work  as  editor  and  correspondent,  then  read  law 
with  the  Hon.  Daniel  S.  Dickinson  in  Binghamton,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  that  city  in  November,  1865. 
In  1866  he  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  and 
also  founded  and  edited  a  newspaper,  in  Northern  Penn- 
sylvania, but  returned  to  Binghamton  in  1867,  and  since 
then  has  been  diligently  prosecuting  his  profession  there 
and  in  the  city  of  New  York,  where  he  now  resides. 

The  natural  inclination  of  Mr.  Dickinson  is  not  to- 
ward law,  but  literature,  and  we  believe  the  bar  will  ere 
long  lose  one  of  its  ornaments,  while  the  literary  world 
will  claim  as  wholly  its  own  one  with  taste  and  talent  of 
a  high  order,  who  should  give  us  many  poetical  brothers 
and  sisters  of  "  The  Children  "  we  love  so  well. 

The  following  poem  was  written  several  years  ago. 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON.  135 

OF  BESSIE. 

Ye  ling' ring  birds  that  still  rejoice 

And  sing  of  Edens  whence  ye  came  ! 
Ye  would  not  sing  a  note  for  shame, 

If  ye  had  heard  my  Bessie's  voice. 

Ye  stainless  clouds  whose  purple  grace 
The  sunset  heightens,  with  its  flush  ! 
I  wonder  not  that  ye  should  blush, 

Since  ye  have  seen  my  Bessie's  face. 

Ye  stars  that  tremble  in  the  skies, 

Half-peering  through  the  lids  of  night, 
I  know  by  your  bedazzled  sight, 

That  ye  have  looked  in  Bessie's  eyes. 

You  modest  Moon  that  sails  the  blue, 
No  wonder  that  your  face  grows  pale, 
And  hides  behind  its  snowy  veil, 

When  Bessie  turns  her  face  on  you. 

And  all  ye  Heavens  that  o'er  me  roll, 
Ye  could  not  show  so  pure  a  dome, 
If,  in  its  frequent  journeys  Home, 

Ye  had  not  felt  my  Bessie's  soul. 

Very  different  in  style  and  thought  is  this,  penned 
more  recently : 

THE  DRUMMER  BOY. 

In  the  battle-cloud's  eclipse — 

And  a  shower  of  shot  and  shell, 
With  his  soul  upon  his  lips, 

Benny  fell ; 
And  they  laid  him  stiff  and  cold, 


136  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

'Neath  the  sod  ;  yet  why  repine  ? 
"When  he  reached  the  gates  of  gold, 
If  he  had  the  countersign, 
All  is  well. 

Hallowed  is  the  path  he  trod. 

And  the  little,  nameless  knoll ; 
Earth  has  claimed  his  form,  but  God 

Claimed  his  soul ! 
Heaven's  reveille  at  dawn, 

Reached  it  through  the  battle's  din, 
When  the  last  Relief  came  on, 

He  was  mustered  out — mustered  in 
Was  his  soul. 

Pilgrim  clouds  in  mourning  deep, 

As  they  journey  through  the  skies, 
Pause  upon  their  way,  to  weep 

Where  he  lies  ; 
But  the  welcoming  thunders  roll, 

And  their  flash  from  star  to  sod, 
Paints  the  pathway  of  his  soul, 
To  the  camp-fires  of  his  God, 
In  the  skies. 

Perhaps  the   finest  poem    Mr.   Dickinson   has  yet 
produced  is  the  following,  entitled 

HOW  FAR  FROM  HE  A  VEN. 

Dear  Love  of  mine,  through  whom  I  know 
The  risen  Christ  still  lives  below, — 
Repeats  His  miracles  of  old, — 
Turns  all  the  sunset  into  gold, — 
And  with  its  touch  of  light  divine, 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON.  137 

Turns  all  the  river  into  wine, — 

Breathes  Heaven's  harmonics  through  the  notes 

The  birds  drop  from  their  velvet  throats, — 

Sets  all  the  world  a  dreaming  of 

Her  ancient  Paradise  of  Love, 

And  brings  the  skies  so  near  to  view ; — 

How  many  miles  from  Heaven  are  you? 

I  know  you  're  near  its  boundary  lines, 
For  as  we  stood  beneath  the  pines, 

Your  soul  went  upward  in  a  prayer ; 
You  raised  to  Heaven  your  pleading  eyes, 
And,  lo  !  the  gates  of  Paradise 

Stood  open  wide  a  moment  there ; 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  wondrous  things,—— 
A  gleam  of  glory — flash  of  wings, — 

A  sense  of  music  filled  the  air 
And  nearer,  nearer  bent  the  skies, 
Until  a  tender,  nameless  grace 
Slowly  transfigured  all  your  face  ; 
And  God's  own  glory  strange  and  rare, 
Fell  tangled  in  your  shining  hair. 

Come  closer,  love,  and  tell  me  true, 

How  many  miles  from  Heaven  are  you  ? 

I  know  your  sainted  feet  have  pressed 

The  heavenly  highways  of  the  Blessed, 

And  every  foot  of  sky  and  sod, 

To  the  dear  city  of  our  God. 

I  know  you  hear  the  choirs  that  sing 

In  the  fair  palace  of  their  King  ; 

And  by  the  holy  thoughts  that  rise, 

Like  timid  angels,  in  your  eyes, — 

Your  pause  to  change  with  trembling  tone. 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Your  native  language  to  our  own, — 
By  all  the  sweet,  mysterious  things 
That  make  me  look  to  see  your  wings, 
I  know  ft  lovelier  land  than  Earth, 
Contains  the  record  of  your  birth, 

That  you  're  a  Heavenly  envoy  here — 
An  angel  clothed  in  fair  disguise  ; 
You  walk  the  world  with  weary  feet, 

That  you  may  make  yourself  more  dear 
Than  all  the  treasures  'neath  the  skies  ; 
Then,  like  the  North  Star's  magnet  sway, — 
Loaned  from  its  place,  to  wear  by  day, — 

You  lead  the  soul  from  sin  and  care, 
O'er  hills  where  Night  and  Morning  meet, 

Straight  up  to  Heaven,  unaware. 
And  as  I  follow,  I  behold 
Glad  glimpses  of  the  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  all  my  homesick  soul  forlorn, 
Longs  for  the  land  where  it  was  born. 
No  more  Earth's  magnet  heart  afar, 

Draws  to  itself  each  living  thing ; 
The  silver  thread  of  every  star 

Becomes  a  Heavenly  leading-string. 
Far  through  the  sky's  celestial  calm, 
I  see  the  Paradise  of  Palm 

Through  which  the  sunsets  burn  and  blush 
And  winds  repeat  their  Heavenly  psalm, — 

God's  voice  within  the  Burning  Bush ; — 
And  just  beyond,  the  golden  wall 

Where  those  we  thought  were  in  the  grave, 

Send  happy  looks  to  us,  and  wave 
Their  signs  of  welcome,  over  all. 
Some  sunshine  from  Eternal  Day, 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 

Falls  here  and  there,  about  our  way  ; 
Some  flowers  in  exile  bloom  to  tell 
The  glorious  gardens  whence  they  fell ; 
And  warm  air  currents  flow  by  me, — 
The  Gulf  Stream  of  the  Ethereal  Sea, — 
And  sometimes  fan  my  Heavenward  face 
With  a  strange  touch  of  added  grace, 

Like  angel's  breath  or  sweep  of  wing ; 
And  we  're  so  near  our  resting  place, 

The  very  birds  come  out  to  sing, 
To  cheer  us  with  their  song  and  sight, 
And  then  fly  back  again,  at  night. 

I  see  the  attending  stars  stoop  down, 
And  follow  nightly,  with  your  crown ; 
I  see  the  pearly  cloud  that  brings 
And  hovers  with  your  waiting  wings  ; 
And  sometimes,  in  the  waning  light, 
I  tremble  lest  you  fade  from  sight. 
Oh,  precious  guide,  I  pray  you,  wait, 
If  first  you  reach  the  Heavenly  gate  ; 
For  well  I  know,  if  I  pass  through, 
'T  will  be  that  I  'm  a  part  of  you, 

And  not  for  aught  that  I  have  done » 
For,  all  my  earthly  self,  the  true, 
The  purest  thoughts  I  ever  knew, 
My  noblest  aims  since  life  began, 
My  hope,  my  faith  in  Christ  and  man, 
And  all  the  love  my  life  has  known, 
Are  all  your  own — are  all  your  own. 


139 


DELLE  W.  NORTON, 

|DAM  and  his  wife  may  have  been  highly  blessed, 
in  their  first  enjoyment  of  Paradise,  but  they 
lacked  one  of  life's  sweetest  blisses.  They  had 
no  courting  time.  They  married  in  haste,  and  their  de- 
scendants have  done  the  leisurely  repenting.  So  far  as 
we  have  any  record,  Miss  Eve  never  waited  tremulously 
of  a  Sabbath  evening  for  her  lover's  coming ;  Adam 
never  dressed  himself  carefully  in  his  Sunday  best  and 
went  forth  lovingly  to  meet  her.  They  missed  one  of 
the  pleasures  it  were  worth  while  being  placed  in  a  gar- 
den for. 

But  the  blissful  cour  ting  experience  has  one  draw- 
back ;  there  is  a  misery  in  it  for  every  Miss  Eve — people 
will  talk  !  And  tha"  is  how  this  bit  of  verse  came  to  be 
written,  entitled 

DO  NOT  SLAM  THE  GA  TE. 

0  Harry  !  pray  do  n't  laugh  at  me  ! — 

But  when  you  go  so  late, 

1  wish  you  would  be  careful,  dear, 

And  never  slam  the  gate  ! 

For  Bessie  listens  every  night, 

And  so  does  teasing  Kate, 
To  tell  me  next  day  what  o'clock 

They  heard  you  shut  the  gate  ! 


142  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

'T  was  nearly  ten  last  night,  you  know, 

But  now  't  is  very  late 
(We  have  discussed  so  many  things); 

O  do  not  slam  the  gate  ! 

For  if  the  neighbors  hear  you,  they 

Will  say  our  future  fate 
We  have  been  talking  over,  so 

You  must  not  slam  the  gate  ! 

I  know  't  will  only  be  the  truth, 

But  then,  I  wish  they  'd  wait 
To  canvass  our  affairs  until 

Well — pray  do  n't  slam  the  gate ! 

At  least  not  now.     But  by-and-by, 

When  in  "  our  "  home,  I  wait 
Your  coming,  I  shall  always  like 

To  hear  you  slam  the  gate  ! 

For  whether  you  go  out  or  in, 

At  early  hour  or  late, 
They  will  not  care  to  tease  me,  ther 

About  that  horrid  gate  ! 

We  have  seen  the  whimsical  waif  repeatedly,  in 
newspapers,  as  have  thousands  of  other  people,  and 
have  enjoyed  its  literal  portraiture  of  feminine  distress, 
as  have  they.  It  is  the  only  waif  of  a  humorous  nature 
which  we  have  introduced  in  this  series,  and  we  give  it 
because  it  is  truly  a  waif,  its  authorship  being  rarely 
recognised,  and  because  the  hand  that  wrote  it  has 
penned  many  beautiful  poems  that  have  been  more  or 
less  widely  copied. 


DELLE   W.  NORTON. 


'43 


It  was  written  by  Delle  E.  Whitney,  of  Lyons,  N. 
Y.,  quite  a  number  of  years  ago,  and  appeared  first  as 
set  to  melody,  in  sheet  music  form.  Produced  for  the 
concert-room,  something  humorous  having  been  asked 
of  Miss  Whitney  for  such  use,  it  was  often  sung  by  a 
pretty  well  known  singer  at  that  time,  and  finding  its 
wray  into  The  Ladies'  Repository  it  went  the  rounds — is 
going  yet.  It  is  the  first  and  last  bit  of  humorous  verse 
its  author  ever  attempted,  and  is  scarcely  even  regarded 
by  her  as  humorous,  inasmuch  as  it  expressed  the  real 
feeling  of  a  young  lady  living  opposite  the  author's 
house,  who  had  been  regularly  teased  about  "that 
horrid  gate.' 

A  poem  less  frequently  copied  than  this,  yet  often 
seen,  and  echoing  a  common  experience  so  truly  that  it 
touches  the  popular  heart,  is  this,  originally  published 
in  The  Galaxy 

THE  MISSING  SHIP. 

I  watched  for  her  from  morn  till  night 

The  ship  I  launched  upon  a  day 
When  seas  were  smooth  and  skies  were  oright, 

And  favoring  winds  blew  o'er  the  bay  ! 

I  'd  freighted  her  with  many  a  care, 

With  tears  I  'd  shed  and  sighs  repressed, 

And  bade  her  take  my  ventures  where 
She  could  exchange  them  all  for — rest. 

She  sailed  across  the  harbor-bar, 

And  sunshine  glimmered  in  her  track 


144  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

But  morning's  light  or  evening's  star 
Shines  not  upon  her  coming  back ! 

And  where  she  is  I  cannot  tell  ! 

Her  cargo  was  of  such  a  sort 
It  may  be  she  can  neither  sell 

Nor  barter  it  in  any  port. 

And  so  she  sails  in  fruitless  quest 

O'er  seas  reflecting  alien  skies, — 
Yet  sailing  east  or  sailing  west 

Her  pennant  never  homeward  flies. 

'T  is  possible  the  way  she  's  lost, 

Or  suffered  shipwreck  on  some  shore ; 

But  whether  she  's  becalmed  or  tossed 
By  tempests,  she  returns  no  more  ! 

Therefore  I  'm  looking  out  alway, 

With  eyes  tear-blinded,  o'er  the  sea ; 

In  hope  she  will  sail  back  some  day 
With  rest  for  my  poor  heart  and  me. 

Miss  Whitney  was  born  at  Fort  Edward,  Saratoga 
county,  N.  Y.,  January  ist,  1840.  Her  girlhood  was 
passed  in  the  town  of  Moreau,  but  she  attended  school 
mainly  in  Fort  Edward  village,  at  the  Academy. 
Brought  up  by  her  grandparents,  the  first  fifteen  years  of 
her  life  were  very  little  watched  over.  She  lived  much 
out  of  doors,  and  alone,  and  came  to  feel  a  near  sympa- 
thy with  nature  when  very  young.  She  early  manifested 
a  fondness  for  books,  and  was  allowed  to  give  herself 
over  almost  entirely  to  reading,  writing  and  dreaming, 


1  She  sailed  across  the  harhojr-bar, 
And  sunshine  glimmered  in  her  track,— 
But  morning's  light  or  evening's  star 
Shines  not  upon  her  coming  back." 


Page  143. 


DELLE   W.NORTON.  145 

which  she  enjoyed  by  turns.  When  fifteen,  she  became 
an  invalid,  and  for  a  long  time  battled  against  disease, 
her  only  solace  still  being  her  pen  and  her  books. 

She  commenced  writing  at  an  early  age,  and  her 
first  published  article  appeared  in  The  Cultivator,  Boston, 
in  her  twelfth  year.,  It  was  entitled  "  Jerusalem."  A  shy, 
sensitive  girl,  the  habit  of  seclusion  and  secrecy  strong 
upon  her,  she  shrunk  from  telling  any  one  of  her  litera- 
ry venture,  and  believing  her  initial  recognition  quite  un- 
known in  the  little  village.  Greatly  to  her  horror,  how- 
ever, when  "she  went  to  the  post-office  for  her  paper,  the 
clerk  quietly  ejaculated  "Jerusalem  !"  as  he  passed  it  into 
her  hand,  and  she  knew  the  secret  was  out. 

One  of  her  earlier  poems,  first  printed  in  The  Torch- 
light, Xenia,  O.,  in  1855,  was  accounted  by  the  editor  of 
that  journal  of  much  merit,  judging  from  a  foot-note  ap- 
pended by  him,  which  said: — ''To  the  one  who  can  read 
this  little  gem  without  "moist  eyes  and  a  trembling  heart, 
there  is  no  pathos  in  any  possible  form  of  language . "  It 
is  as  follows  : 

CALL    ME  NO  LONGER  THINE. 

Call  me  no  longer  thine  !     The  sunny  bowers 

Where  we  have  roamed  will  never  know  me  more  ! 

For  thou  mayst  visit  them  in  future  hours, 

But  my  feet,  standing  on  the  Unseen  Shore, 
Shall  walk  no  more  with  thine  ! 

Turn  from  my  brilliant  eyes  !     They  only  give  thee 

Hopes  that  mislead,  and  falsely  flatt'ring  dreams. — 


I46  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Their  lafmbent  light  is  flashing  to  deceive  thee 
With  beautiful  but  transitory  gleams, — 
Call  me  no  longer  thine  ! 

I  shall  not  long  be  here  !     Death's  icy  ringer 

Will  soon  to  parian  white  my  forehead  chill; — 

To  slow,  sad  rhythm  my  heart-beats  strike  and  linger. 
And  at  its  touch  its  pulses  will  stand  still, — 
Call  me  no  longer  thine  ! 

Upon  my  cheek  a  red,  red  rose  is  blooming, 

Whose  blush  grows  deeper  as  it  nears  decay. 

And  fires  burn  in  my  veins  that  are  consuming 
The  vigor  of  my  youthful  life  away  ! 
Call  me  no  longer  thine  ! 

O,  dark  will  be  the  shadow  resting  o'er  thee, 

And  thou  wilt  shrink  from  the  world's  cheerless  tone, 

For  mem'ries  of  the  past  will  flit  before  thee, 

And  mock  thee  with  the  pleasures  thou  hast  known 
In  days  when  I  was  thine  ! 

God  comfort  thee!     for  thou  wilt  be  aweary 

With  thy  vain  longing  for  my  smile  and  song  ; 

And  thou  wouldst  gladly  leave  the  world,  made  dreary 

Through  losing  me,  to  be  where  I  am  gone 

And  am  no  longer  thine  ! 

And  may  He  help  thee  in  the  hour  of  anguish 

When  the  blow  falls, — and  in  the  calm,  so  rife 

With  passionless  despair,  when  thou  wilt  languish 

Through  the  slow  fever,  that  the  world  calls  Life, 
Because  I  am  not  thine  ! 

Yet  sink  thou  not,  beloved  !     It  is  only 
A  little  while  ere  to  the  vernal  strand 


DELLE    W.   NORTON.  I47 

Of  heavenly  shores  thy  barque  shall  come,  and  lonely 
Thou  shall  be  nevermore,  for  in  that  land 
I  shall  be  always  thine! 

Three  or  four  years  after  this  first  appeared,  as  we 
have  stated,  it  was  put  forth  as  new,  in  a  Philadelphia  pa- 
per, the  title  only  being  changed,  as  was  th?  last  line  of 
each  verse,  to  "Call  me  no  more  thine  own,"  and  attrib- 
uted to  Olive  F.  Paine,  of  Orwell,  Vt. ,  who  had  very  boldly 
appropriated  it  and  deceived  the  editors.  Later  it  went 
the  rounds  of  the  papers  again,  attributed  to  "a  New  Or- 
leans lady,  in  view  of  an  immediate  departure  to  the  bet- 
ter land,"  when  W.  T.  Tinsley,  editor  of  The  Lyons  Re- 
publican, wrote  quite  a  long  article  stating  when,  where, 
and  how  it  had  originally  been  put  forth. 

Miss  Whitney's  verse  is  generally  very  correct,  and 
has  sometimes  an  unusual  element  of  strength  in  it,  as  in 
this  from  The  Christian  Union,  entitled 

AT  REST. 

Has  Death  come  to  her  at  last? 
Are  her  days  of.  darkness  past? 

Is  she  gone  ? 

Well,  her  life-work  is  all  done. 
Fold  the  white  hands  on  her  breast — 

Let  her  rest ! 

We  should  shed  some  bitter  tears, 
Had  she  known  no  doubts,  or  fears, 

And  no  pain ; 
But  her  thwarted  life  in  vain 


I48  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Strove  its  griefs  to  overleap 
Why  then  weep  ? 

In  the  thirty  years  scarce  sped, 
She  was  born  and  married.      Dead. 

Lies  she,  here, 
And  around  her  narrow  bier 
Ghosts  in  legions  with  us  sit, 

Watching  it ! 

Ghosts  of  hopes  too  long  deferred ; 
How  she  saw  them  die,  no  word, 

And  no  moan, 

From  her  lips  (since  she  is  done 
Henceforth  with  each  sob,  and  sigh,) 

Will  reply. 

For  she  rests,  you  see  !     The  balm 
Of  Death's  solemn,  voiceless  calm, 

Heals  each  wound ; 
And  the  place  seems  holy  ground, 
Where  a  soul  so  tired  of  strife 

Enters  Life  ! 
• 

Life  immortal !     Let  us  pray 
God  will  give  her  leave,  to-day, 

To  fill  up} 

With  the  wine  of  Joy,  the  cup 
Held  inverted  here  by  Fate, 

In  her  hate ! 

She  was  very  good  and  fair ; 
How  could  He  let  pain  and  care. 
And  deceit, 


DELLE   W.  NORTON.  I4g 

And  base  wrong,  with  rampant  feet, 
Trample  her  to  death  this  way? 
Tell  me,  pray  ! 

God  forgive  me  !     For  at  best, 
Life  's  a  problem,  and  the  test 

That  applies, 

Not  upon  the  surface  lies  ! 
All  depends  on  what  is  gained — 

Or  attained ! 

Her  life-problem,  God,  to-day, 
Solvds  in  His  own  righteous  way. 

She  for  bread 

Of  Love,  lifted  empty  hands, — instead 
He  puts  heaven  in  them  !     'T  is  bes-t  ! 

Let  her  rest. 

Miss  Whitney  was  married  Jan.  ist,  1874,  toH.  B. 
Norton,  of  Rochester,  in  which  city  she  now  resides. 
She  has  had  a  varied  experience,  and  it  is  not  strange  if 
somewhat  of  the  pathos  of  actual  living  now  and  then 
thrills  through  what  she  writes.  She  has  known  rare  joys, 
and  peculiar  sorrow;  and  yet,  amid  all  the  changes  of 
the  years,  in  a  brave  and  unfaltering  faith,  she  has  kept 
on  singing.  She  has  taken  up  burthens  cheerfully,  and 
borne  them  as  she  might.  She  has  believed,  as  it  seems 
all  might  believe,  if  they  would,  that  beyond  the  clouds 
of  to-day  there  is  ever  a  to-morrow  of  sunshine  sweet  and 
clear.  This  little  Scotch  ballad,  contributed  to  Scribners, 
is  not  more  sad  and  pathetic  than  some  chapters  in  her 
life  history  ; 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

GANGIN    AW  A. 

What  is  it  that  maks  ye  greet  sae,  Jeannie, 
And  spier  me  wi'  leuks  sae  wild  ? 

Ye  shiver  as  though  in  my  place  a  wraith 
Looked  mockingly  out  and  smiled  ! 

Have  I  grown  sae  ghaistly,  and  white  as  that  ? 

Do  ye  ask  what  maks  my  eyes 
Wear  a  leuk  as  o'  one  that 's  beyond  the  world, 

Though  not  yet  up  in  the  skies? 

'Tis  because  I'm  gangin  awa,  Jeannie, — 

I  'm  gangin  slowly  awa 
To  the  narrow  house  that  they  tell  us  of 

Where  "  there  is  nae  room  for  twa  ! " 

Nae  smell  o'  the  daisies  will  reach  me  there, 

Nae  note  that  the  mavis  sings, 
Though  he  trill  his  sweetest  or  saddest  songs, 

Through  all  o'  the  coming  springs  ' 

Yet  I  am  nae  sorry  to  go,  Jeannie, 

The  coolness  and  rest  leuk  sweet, 

For  my  eyes  are  heavy  wi'  unshed  tears, 
My  heart  is  too  tired  to  beat ! 

'T  is  the  auld,  auld  story  ower  again, — 

A  tale  o'  the  common  kind, — 
How  twa  youthfu'  hearts  may  be  filled  wi'  love, 

And  foolish  eyes  may  be  blind 

For  blind  we  maun  surely  hae  been,  Jeannie, 

And  daft,  all  the  world  aboon, 
To  forget  that  I  was  a  peasant  girl, 

And  he  was  the  great  Laird's  son 


DELLE   W.  NORTON. 

But  I  was  sae  hungry  for  love,  Jeannie, 

The  world  was  sae  bleak,  and  sae  wide, 

And  I  had  nae  father  or  mither  to  care, 
"Nae  brother  or  sister  to  chide 

Sae  when  into  our  twa  young  hearts,  Jeannie, 
Cam  the  king  called  Love,  to  reign, 

We  forgot  a  lady  o'  high  degree 
Waited  him  over  the  main  ! 

A  bride  the  old  Laird  had  betrothed  him  to 
When  the  twa  were  babes,  I  ween, 

For  she  had  a  title,  and  gold,  and  lands, 
But  her  face  he  had  never  seen  ! 

Alas !  a/id  alas  !  for  us  baith,   Jeannie, 
That  all  through  the  simmer's  bloom 

We  saw  not  her  beautiful  English  hands 
Were  digging  our  love  a  tomb  ! 

For  as  cruel  as  death  that  strikes  out  life, 

Cam  his  father's  stern  decree, 
He  must  bring  his  bride  ere  the  autumn  waned, 

From  that  land  across  the  sea ! 

Ah  !  God  o'  the  desolate  help  us,  Jean  ! 

Wi'  a  face  as  white  as  snaw, 
And  eyes  that  were  wild  wi'  t'  lurid  fire, 

He  kissed  me  and  sailed  awa ! 

And  ever  and  ever  since  that  sad  hour 

When  the  fatal  message  sped, 
And  the  ship  set  sail  for  the  English  coast, 

I  ha'e  wished  that  I  were  dead  ! 

Dead  !     And  shut  out  frae  the  glens  in  bloom, 
The  withered  leaves  in  their  fall, 


!  ij  2  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

And  shut  from  the  sight  o'  the  ship  that  brings 
That  fair  young  bride  to  the  hall  ! 

Far  better. — far  better  for  him,  and  me, 

Would  it  be  if  the  brackens  green 
Grew  tenderly  over  my  head  and  heart, 

And  the  gowans  blossomed  between  ! 

And  sae  I  am  gangin  awa,  Jeannie, — 

I  'm  gangin  slowly  awa, 
To  the  narrow  house  that  they  tell  us  of 

Where  "there  is  nae  room  for  twa  !" 

Yet  unto  the  rune  o'  the  waves  o'  Death 

My  thoughts  in  one  measure  run, 
"  Forever  and  ever  throughout  the  world 
The  will  o'  the  Lord  be  done." 

Several  poets  have  accounted  in  their  rhymes  for  the 
robin's  crimson  breast,  but  there  is  no  more  tender  legend 
with  regard  to  it  than  is  found  in  these  lines,  written 
quite  a  long  time  ago,  unique  in  the  thought  they  em- 
body, quaintly  suggestive  in  the  reflection  with  which 
they  end. 

TO  THE  ROBIN  REDBREAST. 

On  fair  Brittannia's  isle,  bright  bird, 

A  legend  strange  is  told  of  thee, — 
*T  is  said  thy  blithesome  song  was  hushed 

While  Christ  toiled  up  Mount  Calvary, 
Bowed  'neath  the  sins  of  all  mankind, 

And  humbled  to  the  very  dust 


DELLE   W.  NORTON.  153 

By  the  vile  cross,  while  viler  man 

Mocked  with  a  crown  of  thorns  the  Just. 
Pierced  by  our  sorrows,  and  weighed  down 

By  our  transgressions,—  faint,  and  weak, 
Crushed  by  an  angry  Judge's  frown, 

And  agonies  no  words  can  speak, — 
'T  was  then,  dear  bird,  the  legend  says 

That  thou,  from  out  His  crown,  didst  tear 
The  thorns,  to  lighten  the  distress, 

And  ease  the  pain  that  He  must  bear, 
While  pendant  from  thy  tiny  beak 

The  gory  points  thy  bosom  pressed, 
And  crimsoned  with  thy  Saviour's  blood 

The  sober  brownness  of  thy  breast  ! 
Since  which  proud  hour  for  thee  and  thine, 

As  an  especial  sign  of  grace 
God  pours  like  sacramental  wine 

Red  signs  of  favor  o'er  thy  race  ! 
The  tale  is  touching.     True  or  false 

We  know  not,  but  we  see  a  fire, 
Blood-red,  is  burning  o'er  thy  heart ; — 

And  hear  thy  liquid  notes  aspire 
To  cleave  the  very  heavens.     So  sing 

Thy  joyous  song  of  praise,  while  we 
Listen,  and  learn  to  trust  in  Him 

Who  cares  for  even  such  as  thee  ! 

We  have  already  devoted  considerable  space  to  Mrs. 
Norton's  productions ;  yet  should  hardly  do  her  justice 
did  we  not  reproduce  in  full,  the  finest  poem,  in  many  re- 
spects, we  have  yet  seen  from  her  pen,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  The  Galaxy  about  three  years  ago  : 


154  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

MY  KINGDOM. 

Crown  me  a  Queen, — ye  who  love  me  best,— 
Crown  me  a  Queen,  though  I  stand 

Unknown,  in  a  realm  where  no  subjects 
Shout  my  fame  over  the  land. 

Bring  me  a  scepter  and  purple  robe, 
Put  the  seal  ring  on  my  hand ! 

Where,  do  you  ask,  does  my  empire  lie? 

Are  all  its  fortresses  strong? 
Have  I  no  fear  that  marauders 

May  pillage  its  wealth  before  long? 
No, — for  my  realm  is  intangible, — 

Only  a — kingdom  of  song ! 

The  manifold  gifts  of  the  Universe 

Minister  unto  my  need, 
Its  Unities,  and  its  Diversities, 

Up  to  the  Beautiful  lead, 
Till  my  soul,  filled  with  the  harmony , 

Sings  like  Pan's  musical  reed ! 

It  sings  with  a  passionate  fervor, 
A  wonderful  rhythm  and  stress, 

It  sings  till  the  strength,  and  the  sweetness, 
Make  my  heart  faint  with  excess  ; 

But  the  beautiful  strains  die  unwritten, — 
No  language  their  soul  can  express  ! 

Can  I  put  any  music  on  canvas  ? 

Or  paint  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
Can  I  bring  you  the  mists  from  the  mountain 

Or  show  how  the  violet  blows 
Can  I  give  back  in  all  of  their  whiteness 

The  crystals  of  last  winter's  snows  ? 


IhLLE  W.  NORTON.  155 

Neither  can  I,  with  utmost  endeavor. 

Unspeakable  sweetnesses  fling 
Into  limited  human  expression, 

Else  infinite  music  would  ring 
Its  very  soul  out,  in  the  simplest 

Or  saddest  of  songs  that  I  sing  i 

But  I  shall  be  taught  what  to  carol  ;- 

Invisible  spirits  of  air 
Will  paint  flowers  for  my  inspiration, 

And  teach  the  young  birds  when  and  where 
To  warble  the  songs  I  may  copy 

Because  neither  studied  nor  rare, 

The  sprite  of  the  wind  harps  shall  order 

The  south  and  the  west  wind  to  play 
A  symphony,  matching  the  music 

Composed  by  the  sweet  water  fay, 
While  bees,  birds  and  brooks  shall  be  rivals 

In  teaching  me  what  I  must  say ! 

The  classical  Thespis  shall  tell  me 

How  tragical  numbers  find  tongue, 
And  Thebes  flings  her  widest  gates  open 

To  give  me  what  Pindar  has  sung  ; 
While  the  glorious  Queen  of  Song— Sappho, 

Sings,  throned  the  monarchs  among  ! 

Anacreon's  notes  from  Ionia 

Ring,  mellowed  with  time,  from  the  lyre, — 
I  hear  the  grand  strains  of  blind  Homer, — 

Feel  Petrarch's  invincible  fire  ; 
While  on  floods  of  song,  ancient  and  modern, 

My  soul  rises  higher  and  higher  ! 


!  56  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

And  so,  though  no  brazen-mouthed  trump 
May  herald  my  fame  through  the  land, 

Still  an  heir  to  the  purple  and  ermine. 
Sceptered,  and  crowned,  I  shall  stand 

A  Queen  in  my  own  little  province, 
With  Peace  at  my  royal  right  hand 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH. 

is  not  strange,  perhaps,  that  our  great  Civil 
War  called  forth  few  poetical  expressions  which 
survived  it.  Indeed,  it  called  forth  very  few  that 
made  themselves  widely  felt,  even  while  the  conflict  waged. 
And  when  peace  came — that  glad  time  which  people 
should  most  gladly  sing — hardly  a  verse  gave  rhythmic 
greeting  to  which  the  popular  heart  made  response.  No 
sympathetic  muse  rose  to  the  occasion.  The  poetry  of 
Peace  was  dumb  so  far  as  any  universal  or  representative 
utterance  was  concerned ;  or  it  spoke  only  in  the  hearts 
and  through  the  hand-clasp  of  those  whom  war  had  long 
separated,  met  again  in  the  joy  of  a  great  duty  grandly 
done.  Presently  it  breathed  out — and  so  sweetly  that 
the  world  almost  wept — in  the  blossoms  on  their  graves 
for  whom  peace  had  but  benedictions. 

In  the  summer  of  1867,  two  years  or  more  after  the 
smoke  of  battle  had  cleared  away,  this  little  news  para- 
graph appeared  in  a  metropolitan  journal : 

The  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  animated  by  nobler 
sentiments  than  are  many  of  their  sisters,  have  shown  themselves 
impartial  in  their  offerings  made  to  the  dead.  They  strewed 
flowers  alike  on  the  graves  of  the  Confederate  and  the  National 
soldiers. 


I5g  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Through  the  deed  which  these  few  lines  recounted 
the  real  poetry  of  Peace  spoke,  at  last.     We  all  heard  it, 
and  yet  only  one  man  of  us  all  tenderly  spelled  out  its 
syllables  so  that  each  should  understand.     When  he  had 
done  it,  this  is  how  it  ran  : 

THE   BLUE   AND    THE  G'RAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  had  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver. 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead  : — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew  ; 

Waiting  the    iudgment  day  ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue  ; 

Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  g  oom  of  defeat ; 
All  with  the  battle  blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet ; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the   judgment    day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe  ; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment    day  ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray, 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all ; — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew : 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  Summer  calleth 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years,  now  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won  ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red  ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew  ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue  ; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


'59 


l6o  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

How  clear  the  meaning  seemed  !  It  found  an  echo 
all  over  our  broad  land.  Crystallized  in  print,  first  in 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  September  of  the  year  named, 
this  syllabled  utterance  was  wafted  on  the  white  wings  of 
the  newspaper  from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other. 
With  the  blossoms  of  even7  recurring  May  since  then  it  has 
re-echoed  itself,  growing  sweeter  and  sweeter  year  by 
year,  its  sympathy,  and  loving  charity  widening  more  and 
more  until  the  strife  is  but  a  memory,  and 

"Dying,  the  sadness  of  funeral  dirges, 

Fading  the  musketry's  roar  ; 
Conflict's  deep  ocean  in  murmuring  surges 
Kisses  the  Present's  still  shore  ! " 

This  man  through  whom  the  poetry  of  Peace  spoke 
so  beautifully,  was  not  -widely  known  as  Poesy's  chosen 
med  ium  of  expression.  He  had  rarely  written  for  public 
perusal.  His  name  was  in  no  wise  familiar  to  newspaper 
readers.  Hundreds  who  had  courted  the  muse  for  years 
and  yet  had  never  won  so  worthy  recognition  therefrom, 
had  a  wider  reputation  than  had  he. 

' '  The  Blue  and  the  Gray  "  was  penned  by  F.  M. 
Finch,  Esq.,  of  Ithaca,  N.  Y.  —  a  gentleman  of  fine  mind 
and  careful  culture,  recognized  by  all  who  know  him  as 
the  possessor  of  rare  literary  gifts,  but  modest  and  retiring 
in  the  extreme. 

Francis  Miles  Finch  was  born  in  Ithaca,  about  the 
year  1828.  His  father  was  then  a  merchant  in  the  village 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH.  161 

named,  but  now  lives  in  Aurora.  Mr.  Finch's  early  ed- 
ucation was  obtained  at  the  Lancastarian  School,  in  Ith- 
aca, and  at  the  Ithaca  Academy.  Having  entered  the 
sophomore  class  of  Yale  College,  he  graduated  with 
honor  in  1 845.  After  graduating  he  studied  law  with  Mar- 
cus C.  Riggs  and  Judge  Walbridge;  commenced  prac- 
tice with  the  latter,  after  admission  to  the  bar ;  and  con- 
tinued in  that  business  relation  until  Walbridge  became 
County  Judge.  The  firm  of  Boardman  &  Finch  was 
then  organized,  and  had  a  large  practice  until  its  disolu- 
tion,  when  its  senior  member  was  made  Judge  of  the 
Court  of  Appeals. 

Mr.  Finch  's  reputation  as  a  lawyer  is  excellent,  and 
as  an  orator  he  is  held  in  high    esteem    "in   his  own 
country,"  where   he  permits  his  voice  sometimes  to  be 
heard.      A  memorial   address  delivered  at  the  dedication 
of  a  monumental  tablet  in  the  Presbyterian   church  at 
Aurora,  on  Cayuga   Lake,   was  full   of  beauty  and   elo- 
quence.     Upon  the  tablet  was  engraved   the  names  of 
thirty-seven  Union    soldiers,  who  went  from  the  town  of 
Ledyard,  Cayuga  county,  and  in  these  words  he  recog- 
nized their  love  and  memories  of  home  : 

This  is  the  place :  in  their  own  town,  from  which  these  sol- 
diers marched  to  the  great  war ;  whose  hills  and  valleys  and  nest- 
ling cottages,  whose  kind  home  faces,  and  dumb  farm  pets,  and 
cool  grays  of  the  dawn,  and  rich  reds  of  the  sundown,  they  car- 
ried with  them  in  their  hearts  ;  carried  with  them  to  the  dark  and 
murderous  swamps  of  the  peninsula  and  longed  for  their  own  dry 


T62  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

and  blooming  uplands  ;  carried  with  them  to  the  blistering  fields 
of  the  Carolinas,  and  wished  for  the  cool  brow  of  their  Aurora 
ridges  ;  carried  with  them  to  the  turbid  and  muddy  waters  that 
stained  and  mottled  the  Mississippi  wharves,  and  pined  for  the 
clear  blue  and  pure  green  of  their  own  dainty  diamond  of  a  lake. 
Poor  boys !  No  man  knows  how  frequent  and  how  bitter  were 
their  longings  ! 

To  write  such  a  poem  as  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray," 
an  intense  sympathy  with  the  class  it  memorializes  was 
prerequisite.  The  poem  itself  was  hastily  penned,  and 
apparently  the  outcome  of  a  sudden  inspiration,  but  it 
was  really  the  fruit  of  years  of  sympathetic  silence.  Un- 
less one  had  felt  the  thrill  of  unshed  tears  over  the  shed- 
ding of  Northern  and  Southern  blood,  he  could  not  have 
written  what  has  so  often  caused  the  tears  to  flow.  In  the 
memorial  address  from  which  we  have  quoted,  Mr.  Finch's 
sympathy  is  from  first  to  last  manifest,  and  we  make  this 
extract,  as  showing  how  it  crystallizes  into  words,  and 
how  really  poetical  is  even  Mr.  F's  prose 

Here  for  the  last  time,  as  we  halt  these  soldier  shadows  upon 
the  verge  of  the  unseen  world,  at  the  very  parting  of  the  veil,  can 
we  see  them  form  in  line  to  receive  our  sad  salute,  and  then  disap- 
pear into  the  misty  tents  ot  eternity.  Halt ! — Soldiei-s  of  the 
Union  !  those  for  whom  you  fought  salute  you :  those  for  whom 
you  died  salute  you  :  a  freed  and  enfranchised  race  salute  you  :  Lib- 
erty, with  the  stain  washed  from  her  brow,  salutes  you :  a  flag, 
untorn.  undimmed,  salutes  you  ;  a  nation,  grateful,  thankful,  sad 
salutes  you  !  Soldiers,  adieu  !  To  the  rest  of  the  spirit  land,  to 
the  presence  of  your  God — March !  I  see  them  touch  their  caps 
and  fall  into  shadowy  line,  and  one  by  one  disappear.  Do  they 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH. 


163 


ever  return  to  us?  Do  they  march  and  countermarch  about  us  in 
the  sleep  of  the  midnight?  Do  they  sit  around  the  watchfires  which 
the  moonlight  makes  in  the  rifts  of  the  forest,  and  talk  of  their 
ended  battles  ?  Do  they  stand  on  guard  beside  us?  Do  they  sen- 
tinel our  homes  ?  Are  they  Covering  near  us  to-day?  "Vainly  we 
ask.  Only  the  dreaming  poet,  with  sad  eyes  far-reaching  ;  and  the 
inspired  artist,  with  brush  dipped  in  the  colors  of  a  rapt  reverie, 
can  answer  for  us. 

Do  you  remember  the  "Watch  on  the  Potomac,"  drawn  by 
the  marvelous  pencil  of  one  whose  genius  fills  the  world  with 
laughter,  but  sometimes  touches  the  inmost  soul  of  sympathy  ? 
The  moon  was  just  risen  above  the  river,  solemn  and  white  ;  like 
snow  its  radiance  drifts  across  the  shadowy  water,  and  touches  the 
shore  where  sleep  at  Arlington  so  many  of  the  war's  countless 
dead.  Ghost-like  and  dim,  among  the  shadows  of  the  cemetery, 
and  the  head-stones  of  the  graves,  paces  a  soldier  sentinel.  The 
moonlight  touches  the  barrel  of  his  musket  and  lights  it  into  sil- 
ver ;  touches  his  tangled  beard,  and  makes  it  white  with  watching  ; 
touches  the  letters  on  his  belt,  and  makes  them  flash  like  steel :  but 
all  else  is  dark  and  shadowy ;  and  there,  all  the  night,  till  the  grey 
dawn  breaks,  alone  among  the  silent  graves,  the  spirit  sentinel 
walks.  Let  us  believe  it,  my  friends.  Let  us  believe  that  not  an 
impassable  gulf,  but  a  river,  bridged  lies  between  us  and  the  bet- 
ter land :  that  those  who  have  gone  before  us  do  yet  remember 
their  earthly  pilgrimage,  and  their  earthly  friends  ;  that  the  spirits 
of  the  just  do  hover  about  us,  and  know,  with  the  master  knowl- 
edge of  Heaven,  all  that  we  say  and  do  :  and  so  believing,'  let  us 
feel  that  this  memorial  becomes  precious,  that,  perhaps,  those 
watch  it  whom  we  never  hear  or  see  ;  and,  at  all  events,  that  Su- 
preme Love,  which  counts  and  guards  the  very  sparrows  as  they 
fly,  and  looks  with  pleasure  on  the  least  unselfish  act,  beholds  our 
work,  and  accepts  the  deed. 


T64  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

The  address  concluded  with  some  tender  reflections 
upon  the  days  of  Peace,  and  they  are  so  in  harmony  with 
the  spirit  of  our  waif  that  we  may  be  pardoned  for  yet 
another  extract  : 

Once  in  the  recent  summer,  wandering  deep  into  the  silence 
of  the  northern  wilderness,  I  came  upon  a  channel,  the  tortuous 
link  between  the  waters  of  two  peaceful  lakes.  The  channel 
banks  were  lined  with  a  wealth  of  wild  roses,  training  their  warm 
coloring  for  many  miles,  while  its  surface  was  covered  with 
white  waxen  lilies,  whose  snowy  cups  sat  lightly  on  the  water, 
and  were  made  more  purely  white  by  the  red  rose  framework  of 
their  setting.  And  so  the  days  of  peace  seemed  whiter  for  the 
long,  red  years  of  war :  seemed  worthier  for  their  weary  and  ter- 
rible cost.  Let  not  their  enjoyment  make  us  forgetful  or  un- 
grateful. Let  every  soldier's  grave  be  sacred,  and  grow  beautiful 
under  the  June  blossoms  strewn  by  loving  hands.  Let  every  sol- 
dier's name  be  rescued  from  oblivion,  saved  upon  monument  or 
tablet  for  the  respect  and  love  of  after  ages.  Let  this  memorial 
last  as  long  as  the  walls  which  uphold  it ;  as  the  ceaseless  voice  of 
the  waves  that  sing  to  it  their  lulling  song  in  the  calm,  and  shout 
their  war-cry  in  the  storm.  And  let  there  be  forever  blended 
with  it,  as  over  some  shadowy  landscape  the  skillful  artist  flashes 
a  light  from  an  unseen  orb,  the  memory  of  him  whose  hand  has 
silently  thrown  a  light  across  the  darkness  of  almost  forgotten 
graves,  and  carved  these  soldiers'  names  in  letters  that  will  not 
fade.  And  may  this  memorial  prove,  like  that  costlier  one,  raised 
by  a  nation's  gratitude  at  Gettysburg,  for  every  soldier  whose 
name  it  bears  the  lasting  preserver  of  his  fame  ! 

When  the  leaves  were  sere  and  crimson, 

And  crisp  the  morning  air, 
And  wound  the  breath  of  Autumn 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH.  165 

Through  the  forest's  golden  hair, 
On  a  field  of  death  and  silence. 

Where  the  battle  storm  had  blown> 
Came  a  nation,  clad  in  mourning, 

With  a  monumental  stone. 

All  around  them  lay  the  dead 

Underneath  the  flowers  asleep, 
All  above  them  smiled  the  sky 

Gilding  warm  the  rocky  steep, 
And  with  words  of  shining  glory 

From  a  golden  lip  and  tongue 
They  made  the  mountain  sacred 

Where  the  battle  bugles  rung. 
While  the  prayer  is  floating  upwards, 

Sits  apart  an  angel  form, 
With  a  scroll  like  misty  fleece  clouds 

That  follow  up  the  storm, 
And  she  writes  with  diamond  pencil 

Each  buried  soldier's  name  ; 
And  the  angel  form  is  Justice, 

And  the  angel  pen  is  Fame  ! 

Mr.  Finch  wrote  a  few  college  songs,  while  at  Yale, 
and  on  several  occasions  since,  while  gathered  wiih  his 
fellow  alumni,  has  delivered  poems  there.  With  these 
exceptions  he  has  produced  little  rhyme,  so  far  as  we  are 
aware.  The  following  lyric,  in  striking  contrast  to  that 
already  quoted,  as  to  spirit  and  style,  has  been  printed 
often,  and  shows  how  effectively  Mr.  Finch  can  treat 
other  than  pathetic  themes  : 


1 66  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

THE  STORM  KING. 

I  am  Storm— the  King  ! 
I  live  in  a  forest  of  fire  and  cloud, 
You  may  hear  my  batteries  sharp  and  loud 

In  the  summer  night, 
When  I  and  my  warriors  arm  for  the  fight  ; 

And  the  willows  moan, 

And  the  cedars  groan, 
And  they  bend  beneath  the  terrible  spring 

Of  Storm,  the  King ! 

I  am  Storm — the  King ! 

My  troops  are  the  wind,  and  the  hail,  and  the  rain 
My  foes  are  the  woods  and  the  feathery  grain  ; 

The  mail-clad  oak 
That  gnarls  his  front  to  my  chaige  and  stroke ; 

The  ships  on  the  sea, 

The  blooms  on  the  lea, — 
And  they  writhe  and  break  as  the  war-cries  ring 

Of  Storm,  the  King! 

I  am  Storm — the  King! 
I  drove  the  sea  o'er  the  Leyden  dykes, 
And  a  deadlier  foe  than  the  burgher  pikes ; 

To  the  wall  I  bore 
The  "  Ark  of  Delft  "  from  the  ocean's  shore, 

O'er  vale  and  mead, 

With  war-like  speed, 
Till  Spaniards  fled  from  the  deluge  ring 

Of  Storm,  the  King! 

I  am  Storm — the  King  ! 
I  saw  an  armada  set  sail  from  Spain, 
To  sprinkle  with  blood  a  maiden's  reign  ; 


!  '          l 


S'llliifllllllllliil 


FRANCIS  M.  FINCH.  167 

I  met  the  host 
With  shattering  blows  on  the  island  coas         p? 

And  tore  each  deck 

To  shreds  and  a  wreck  ; 
And  the  Saxon  poets  the  praises  sing 

Of  Storm,  the  King  .' 

I  am  Storm — the  King  ! 
My  marshals  are  four — the  swart  simoon, 
Sirocco,  tornado,  and  swift  typhoon  ; 

My  realm  is  the  world, 
Wherever  a  pennon  is  waved  or  furled  ; 

My  stern  command 

Sweeps  sea  and  land  ; 
And  none  unharmed  a  scoff  may  fling 

At  Storm,  the  King  ! 

I  am  Storm — the  King  ! 
I  scour  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  air, 
And  drag  the  trees  by  their  emerald  hair 

A  chase  for  game  ; 
With  a  leap  and  a  scream,  the  prairies  flame, 

The  commerce  ark 

And  the  pirate  bark  ; 
And  none  may  escape  the  terrible  spring 

Of  Storm,  the  King  ! 

As  a  newspaper  poet,  in  the  sense  of  having  been 
widely  read  and  universally  appreciated,  Mr.  Finch  stands 
among  the  few.  It  is  the  public's  loss  that  he  so  persist- 
ently hides  his  poetic  light,  as  it  was  the  public's  gain 
when  he  yielded  once  to  a  better  impulse,  and  gave  us 
' 'The  Blue  and  the  Gray." 


MARGARET    E.  SANGSTER. 


]HE  whole  story  of  a  faithful,  long-loving  wedded 
iife  is  contained  in  the  following  waif,  which  in 
point  of  exquisite  tenderness,  of  pathos  the  more 
pathetic  for  its  complete  simplicity,  is  rarely  equalled. 
The/e  is  even  more  in  it  than  the  story :  it  has  all  the 
homely  grace  of  a  picture,  which  one  sees  while  he  reads: 

ARE  THE  CHILDREN  A  T  HOME, 

Each  day  when  the  glow  of   sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  tripping  lightly  by, 
I  steal  away  from  my  husband, 

Asleep  in  his  easy  chair, 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead 

That  once  was  full  of  life, 
Ringing  with  girlish  laughter, 

Echoing  boyish  strife 
We  two  are  waiting  together ; 

And  oft,  as  the  shadows  come, 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me, 

"  It  is  night !  are  the  children  home?" 


170  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS, 

"Yes,  love  !"  I  answer  him  gently, 
"  They  're  all  home  long  ago  ;  " 
And  I  sing  with  my  quivering  treble 

A  song  so  soft  and  low, 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumbe.% 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number 
Home  in  the  Better  Land. 

Home,  where  never  a  sorrow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  with  tears  ! 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years  ! 
I  know  ! — yet  my  arms  are  empty, 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  Heaven. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  ail  about  me, 

A  vision  from  the  skies : 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lost  the  way  to  my  breast, 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels, 

Passed  to  the  world  of  the  blessed. 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  them, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows  :e 
My  boys  that  I  gave  to  freedom, — 

The  red  sword  sealed  their  vows ! 
In  a  tangled  Southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers,  true  and  brave, 
They  fell ;  and  the  flag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God  !  floats  over  their  grave  ! 


MARGARE T  E.  SANG STER.  171 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  the  wings  of  light, 
And  again  we  two  are  together, 

All  alone  in  the  night. 
They  tell  me  his  mind  is  failing, 

But  I  smile  at  idle  fears  ; 
He  is  only  back  with  the  children, 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And  still  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  rest, 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner, 

"  Say,  love  !  have  the  children  come?" 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted, 
"  Yes,  dear  !  they  are  all  at  home  !  " 

It  were  very  easy  to  paint  the  picture,  after  reading 
the  poem.  There  stands  the  cottage  by  the  roadside, 
whence  so  much  of  light  and  love  have  fled  ;  the  wistful 
face  of  the  mother  looks  out  of  the  open  doorway  upon 
the  children  trooping  past ;  and  through  the  window  you 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  bent  form,  the  wrinkled  cheeks  and 
whitening  hair  of  the  dozing  old  man,  to  whom  life's  twi- 
light has  indeed  come,  whose  waking  thought,  as  in  days 
gone  by,  is  still  one  of  parental  care  and  affection.  Two 
lonely  waiters  !  each  in  a  certain  way  waiting  for  the  sound 
of  voices  heard  here  no  longer,  for  the  tramp  of  little 
feet  sounding  only  in  memory — waiting  for  all  the  dear 
home  joys  so  rudely  broken,  so  sadly  missed,  for  the  som- 


1^2  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

forts  of  an  old  age  longing  to  be  comforted,  and  the 
ripening  blessings  which  the  years  should  surely  bring. 
Two  lonely  waiters  ! — is  there  not  such  a  pair  by  many  a 
hearthstone  ?  except,  mayhap,  that  neither 

— "  is  only  back  with  the  children 
In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years," 

and  both  are  waiting  in  the  same  patient  way  to  greet  the 
absent  when  God's  good  time  comes. 

"Are  the  Children  at  Home?"  was  written  in  the 
summer  of  1867,  on  a  pleasant  verandah  in  Norfolk,  Va., 
overlooking  the  blue  Elizabeth  River.  It  was  published 
in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  November  of  the  same  year, 
was  promptly  caught  up  by  the  Press,  and  republished 
everywhere,  and  during  these  years  since  has  been  read  as 
often,  perhaps,  as  any  poem  in  the  language.  It  has 
been  frequently  recited  in  public  by  the  Vandenhoffs; 
and  we  have  heard  other  readers  give  it  with  admirable 
effect.  There  was  nothing  noteworthy  in  the  circumstan- 
ces of  its  composition.  It  was  an  inspiration,  suggested 
by  no  incident — one  of  those  fruitful  fancies  with  which 
heaven  blesses  some  people,  that  thereby  others  may  be 
blessed.  The  author  is  Mrs.  Margaret  E.  Sangster,  now 
a  resident  of  Williamsburg,  New  York,  and  long  time  a 
contributor  to  some  of  the  best  periodicals. 

Mrs.  Sangster  has  written  more  or  less  for  publication 
since  her  fourteenth  year.  At  that  early  age  she  took  a 
prize  for  an  Essay  on  Temperance,  over  about  five  hun- 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  173 

dred  cpmpetitors,  the  prize  offered  being  a  small  collec- 
tion of  standard  authors,  and  the  essayists  such  pupils, 
male  and  female,  of  the  various  public  and  private  schools 
in  New  York  and  Brooklyn  as  chose  to  compete.  She 
was  then  a  member  of  Williamsburg  Collegiate  Insti- 
tute a  French  and  English  school  of  considerable  reputa- 
tion, and  will  be  pleasantly  remembered  by  many  who 
studied  there.  Mrs.  Sangster's  contributions  have  been  to 
religious  papers,  in  the  main — Presbyterian  and  Reformed 
Dutch — and  to  Sunday  School  literature.  Her  warm 
heart  has  always  gone  out  most  lovingly  towards  the  chil- 
dren, and  they  have  much  to  thank  her  for.  Several  years 
ago  the  Boston  Tract  Society  issued  a  collection  of  her 
sketches  and  short  articles,  under  the  title  of  "Heaven 
and  Home,"  All  of  Mrs.  Sangster's  earlier  writing  was 
over  her  maiden  initials— M.  E.  M.— behind  which  she  now 
occasionally  veils  herself.  She  is  not  a  very  prolific  writer, 
partly,  perhaps,  because  writing  is  with  her  a  matter  of 
mood  ;  partly  because  the  duties  of  wife  and  mother  make 
so  continual  demands  upon  her  time,  and  she  is  com- 
pelled to  pursue  her  literary  work  in  what  Marion  Har- 
land  calls  "the  betweens" — yet  she  has  written  much, 
both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  has  the  happy  knack  of  al- 
ways writing  well.  That  she  puts  more  heart  into  what 
she  does  than  do  many,  is  one  secret  of  her  growing  pop- 
ularity, due,  doubtless,  to  constitutional  temperament. 

Mrs.  Sangster  is  a  native  of  New  York  State,  and  has 
lived  in  it  all  her  life  save  a  few  years  in  Virginia,  and  one 


I  74  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

twelve-month  during  the  war,  in  Maryland.  Few  ladies 
in  the  State  have  as  much  of  the  real  poetic  feeling,  and 
none  more  beautifully,  more  touchingly  express  that  feeling 
than  does  she.  Nothing  further  were  needed  to.  prove  this 
statement  than  the  poem  already  given.  In  producing 
other  of  her  verse,  we  quote  first  a  poem  which  origi- 
nally appeared  in  The  Christian  Union: 

A   VESPER  SONG. 

The  clouds  of  the  sunset,  fold  on  fold, 

Are  purple,  and  tawny,  and  edged  with  gold. 

Soft  as  the  silence  after  a  hymn, 

Is  the  hush  that  falls,  as  the  light  grows  dim. 

And  the  phantom  feet  of  the  shadows  glide 
To  the  maple  tops  and  the  river's  tide. 

Not  even  the  thought  of  a  sound  is  heard, 
Till  the  dusk  is  thrilled  by  a  hidden  bird 

That  suddenly  sings — as  the  light  grows  dim — 
Its  wonderful  passionate  vesper  hymn. 

Sweet  as  the  voice  of  an  angel's  call, 
Sent  to  me  from  the  jasper  wall, 

Is  the  music  poured  from  that  tiny  throat, 
A  message  of  comfort  in  every  note. 

I  know  not  where  in  the  leafy  tree, 
The  dear  little  warbler's  home  may  be  ; 

Nor  care  I  to  find,  by  a  thoughtful  quest, 
Its  cunningly  woven  castled  nest. 


I! 


MA  RCA  RET  E.  SA  NGS  TER  1 7  - 

The  singer  was  less  to  my  heart  to-night, 

Than  the  song  he  dropped  through  the  parting  light. 

Its  overflow  of  a  joy  intense, 

Came  unto  me,  like  a  recompense 

For  the  undertone  of  an  aching  care, 
That  was  near  to  making  my  soul  de»pair. 

There  are,  in  this  world  where  God  is  King 
Some  that  have  nothing  to  do — but  sing  ! ' 

Some  that  are  all  too  blithe  to  keep 
Pent  in,  the  voice  of  their  rapture  deep. 

Though  it  may  be  low  under  waves  of  pain, 
They  found  the  pearl  of  their  purest  strain. 

And  we  who  listen,  have  nought  to  say 
Concerning  their  Master's  rule  and  way. 

Only  this,— it  was  surely  best, 

Since  it  taught  them  strains  so  full  of  rest. 

And  this,  that  never  a  folded  wing 

Should  cover  a  heart  that  was  meant  to  sing, 

And  show  the  path  to  a  lighted  Ark, 
Perhaps,  to  some  one  lost  in  the  dark. 

The  home  impulse,  shines  through  nearly  all  that  Mrs. 
Sangster  pens.  You  see  it  and  feel  it  in  the  waif  we  have 
given,  and  it  is  not  less  recognizable  in  this  Scotch  dis- 
guise, which  found  place  first  in  Harper  s  Bazar,  for 
which  excellent  journal  Mrs.  S.  writes  much,  and  has 
been  repeatedly  seen  elsewhere  : 


I76  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 


WELCOME. 

Anither  bairn  cam  hame, 

Hame  to  mither  an'  me  ! 
It  was  yestre  'en  in  the  gloamin  , 

When  scarce  was  light  to  see 
The  wee  bit  face  o'  the  darlin', 

Its  greetin'  cry  was  heard, 
An'  our  crowded  nestie  made  a  place 

To  haud  anither  bird. 

Sax  little  bonnie  mouths, 

Ah  me  !  tak  muckle  to  fill, 
But  to  grudge  the  bit  to  the  seventh, 

P'or  'mither  an'  me  were  ill  ; 
Sae  nestle  up  closer-,  dearie, 

Lie  saft  on  the  snawy  breist, 
Where  fast  life's  fountain  floweth, 

When  thy  twa  warm  lips  are  preist. 

The  rich  mon  counteth  his  treasures, 

By  the  shinin'  gowd  in  'shand, 
By  's  ships  that  sail  on  the  sea, 

By  's  harvests  that  whiten  the  land  ; 
The  puir  mon  counteth  his  blessings 

By  the  ring  o'  voices  sweet, 
By  the  hope  that  glints  in  bairnies'  cen, 

By  the  sound  o'  bairnies'  feet. 

An'  it  's  welcome  hame  my  darlin', 

Hame  to  mither  an'  me 
An'  it  's  never  may  ye  fin"  less  o'  love 

Than  the  love  .ye  brought  \vi'  ye  I 
Cauld  's  the  blast  o'  the  wild  wind, 

An*  rough  the  world  may  be, 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  Tyy 

But  warm  's  the  hame  o'  the  wee  one, 
In  the  hearts  o'  mither  an'  me  ! 

This  same  home  thought,  but  with  an  application 
all  may  make  their  own,  is  apparent  in  the  following,  also 
from  The  Bazar,  which  has  wandered  far  as  a  waif: 

OUR  OWN. 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning 

How  wearily  all  the  day 
The  words  unkind  would  trouble  my  mind 

That  I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling, 

Nor  given  you  needless  pain  ; 
But  we  vex  our  own  with  look  and  tone 

We  may  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 
.     You  may  give  me  the  kiss  of  peace, 
Yet  it  well  might  be  that  never  for  me 

The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease  ! 
Ho-w  many  go  forth  at  morning 

Who  never  come  home  at  night ! 
And  hearts  have  broken  for  harsh  words  spoken, 

That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 

We  have  careful  thought  for  the  stranger, 

And  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest  ; 
But  oft  for  our  own  the  bitter  tone, 

Though  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
Ah !  lips  with  the  curve  impatient, 

Ah  !  brow  with  the  shade  of  scorn, 
'T  were  a  cruel  fate,  were  the  night  too  late 

To  undo  the  work  of  the  morn  ! 
13 


178  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Mrs.  Sangster  knows  the  true  pathos  of  life— as  so 
many  sweet  singers  do — but  despite  this,  she  has  gone  on 
as  bravely  as  a  brave  woman  could,  with  her  chief  trust  in 
divine  help,  her  chief  comfort  in  divine  hope.  If  some- 
times the  clouds  were  dark  about  her,  she  has  found  them 
growing  brighter  as  looked  at  in  imagination  from 

THE  HE  A  VEN  SIDE. 

The  sky  was  soft  with  tender  blue, 
As  Heaven  itself  was  shining  through, 
And  far  above  our  restless  world 
Its  bannered  peace  was  wide  unfurled. 

The  distant  mountains'  purple  line 
Was  bathed  in  splendor  all  divine, 
And  seemed  the  valley's  cup  to  brim 
With  waves  of  beauty  to  the  rim. 

The  very  wind  was  soft  and  sweet, 
That  rocked  the  grass  blades  at  our  feet, 
And  gently  did  the  zephyrs  blow 
Across  the  buckwheat's  billowy  snow  ; 

When  lo  !  a  change.     The  tranquil  sky 
Grew  dark.     Black  clouds  come  drifting  by ; 
Like  battled  hosts  in  war's  array, 
Their  vengeful  ranks  assault  the  day  ! 

And  grim  and  sullen,  fold  on  fold, 
They  hide  the  summer's  shining  gold, 
Till  wood,  and  field,  and  wayside  path 
Are  menaced  in  their  stormy  wrath. 

Still  o'er  them  soft  the  tender  blue, 

With  Heaven's  brightness  gleaming  through, 


MARGARET  £.  SANGSTER.  179 

Was  steadfast,  radiant,  undismayed, 
Too  lifted  up  to  be  afraid. 

And  while  we  shivered  in  the  gray 
Thick  falling  gloom  that  wrapped  the  day, 
Lo  !  touched  by  spears  of  sunny  light, 
*  The  clouds  are  edged  with  sparkling  white. 

And,  looked  on  from  the  Heaven  side, 
They  surely  must  be  glorified, 
And  where  God  sees  them  floating  fair, 
Seem  isles  of  peace  in  upper  air. 

For  a  year  or  two,  Mrs.  S.  was  employed  as  Associate 
Editor  of  Hearth  <5f  Home,  and  in  that  capacity  she  wrote 
much  in  the  way  of  miscellaneous  matter — stories,  essays, 
and  the  like.  Several  of  her  poems,  contributed  to  that 
journal,  were  generally  copied,  notably  this  : 

BEFORE  THE  LEAVES  FALL. 

I  wonder  if  oak  and  maple, 

Willow  and  elm  and  all, 
Are  stirred  at  heart  by  the  coming 

Of  the  day  their  leaves  must-fall. 
Do  they  think  of  the  yellow  whirlwind, 

Or  know  of  the  crimson  spray, 
That  shall  be  when  chill  November 

Bears  all  their  leaves  aw..y? 

Perhaps  beside  the  water 

The  willow  bends,  serene 
As  when  her  young  leaves  glistened 

In  a  mist  of  golden  green  ; 


I  So  IV A  IF S  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

But  the  brave  old  oak  is  flushing 

To  a  wine-red  dark  and  deep, 
And  maple  and  elm  are  blushing 

The  blush  of  a  child  asleep. 

"  If  die  we  must,"  the  leaflets 
Seem  one  by  one  to  say, 
"  We  will  wear  the  colors  of  gladness 

Until  we  pass  away. 
No  eyes  shall  see  us  falter  ; 

And  before  we  lay  it  down, 
We'll  wear,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  earth, 
The  year's  most  kingly  crown." 

So,  trees  of  the  stately  forest, 

And  trees  of  the  trodden  way, 
You  are  kindling  into  glory 

This  soft  autumnal  day, 
And  we  who  gaze  remember 

That  more  than  all  they  lost, 
To  hearts  and  trees  together, 

May  come  through  the  ripening  frost. 

The  following,  contributed  to  Tht  Bazar,  has  become 
a  seasonable  tit-bit  for  editors,  and  is  given  place  in  their 
columns  almost  every  recurring  spring  : 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  NEST. 

They  '11  come  again  to  the  apple  tree — 

Robin  and  all  the  i-est — 
When  the  orchard  branches  are  fair  to  see 

In  the  snow  of  the  blossoms  dressed, 
And  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  will  be 

The  building  of  the  nest. 


MARGA  RE  T  E.  SANGS  TER.  1 g , 

Weaving  it  well  so  round  and  trim, 

Hollov/ing  it  with  care, 
Nothing  too  far  away  for  him, 

Nothing  for  her  too  fair  ; 
Hanging  it  safe  on  the  topmost  limb — 

Their  castle  in  the  air. 

Ah,  mother-bird,  you  '11  have  weary  days 
When  the  eggs  are  under  your  breast, 

And  your  mate  will  fear  for  willful  ways 
When  the  wee  ones  leave  the  nest  ; 

But  they  '11  find  their  Wngs  in  a  glad  amaze, 
And  God  will  see  to  the  rest. 

So  come  to  the  trees  with  all  your  train 

When  the  apple-blossoms  blow  ; 
Through  the  April  shimmer  of  sun  and  rain 

Go  flying  to  and  fro  ; 
And  sing  to  our  hearts  as  we  watch  again 

Your  fairy  building  grow. 

A  hint  of  Mrs.  Sangster's  religious  feeling  may  be 
found  in  the  first  two  poems  reproduced.  In  this,  writ- 
ten for  The  Independent,  there  is  exquisite  tenderness  of 
longing,  blent  with  most  beautiful  recognition  of  need  : 

WAYFARERS. 

The  way  is  long,  my  darling, 

The  road  is  rough  and  steep, 
And  fast  across  the  evening  sky 

I  see  the  shadows  sweep. 
But  oh  !  my  love,  my  darling, 

No  ill  to  us  can  come, 
No  terror  turn  us  from  the  path. 

For  we  are  going  home.  \ 


lS2  WAIFS  AND   THE  I R  AUTHORS. 

Your  feet  are  tired,  my  darling — 

So  tired,  the  tender  feet ; 
But  think,  when  we  are  there  at  last, 

How  sweet  the  rest !  how  sweet ! 
For  lo  !  the  lamps  are  lighted, 

And  yonder  gleaming  dome, 
Before  us,  shining  like  a  star, 

Shall  guide  our  footsteps  home. 

We  've  lost  the  flowers  we  gathered 

So  early  in  the  morn  ; 
And  on  we  go,  with  empty  hands 

And  garments  soiled  and  worn. 
But  oh  !  the  dear  All-Father 

Will  out  to  meet  us  come, 
And  fairer  flowers  and  whiter  robes 

There  wait  for  us  at  home  ! 

Art  cold,  my  love,  and  famished? 

Art  faint  and  sore  athirst? 
Be  patient  yet  a  little  while, 

And  joyous  as  at  first  ; 
For  oh  !  the  sun  sets  never 

Within  that  land  of  bloom, 
And  thou  shalt  eat  the  bread  of  life 

And  drink  life's  wine  at  home. 

The  wind  blows  cold,  my  darling, 

Adown  the  mountain  steep, 
And. thick  across  the  evening  sky 

The  darkling  shadows  creep  ; 
But  oh  !  my  love,  press  onwarcj, 

Whatever  trials  come, 
For  in  the  way  the  Father  set 

We  two  are  going  home. 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  183 

That  is  indeed  a  blessed  wayfaring,  which  sees  only 
the  glorious  goal  ahead.  Yet  often  between  the  want 
and  the  wealth,  between  the  hope  and  the  realization, 
there  are  inevitable  weariness  and  pain,  unavoidable  grief 
and  care  ;  and  mindful  of  these,  as  every  conscious  soul 
must  be,  we  find  comfort  in  philosophy  like  this : 

SUFFICIENT  UNTO  THE  DA  Y, 

Because  in  a  day  of  my  days  to  come 

There  waiteth  a  grief  to  be, 
Shall  my  heart  grow  faint,  and  my  lips  be  dumb 

In  this  day  that  is  bright  for  me  ? 

Because  of  a  subtle  sense  of  pain, 

Like  a  pulse-beat  threaded  through 
The  bliss  of  my  thought,  shall  I  dare  refrain 

From  delight  in  the  pure  and  true  ? 

In  the  harvest  fields  shall  I  cease  to  glean 

Since  the  summer  bloom  has  sped  ? 
Shall  I  veil  mine  eyes  to  the  noon-day  sheen 

Since  the  dew  of  the  morn  hatL  fled? 

Nay,  phantom  ill  with  the  warning  hand 

Nay,  ghosts  of  the  weary  past, 
Serene,  as  in  aimor  of  faith,  I  stand, 

You  may  not  hold  me  fast. 

Your  shadows  across  my  sun  may  fall. 

But  as  bright  the  sun  shall  shine, 
For  I  walk  in  a  light  ye  cannot  pall, 

The  light  of  the  King  Divine. 
And  whatever  the  shades  from  day  to  day, 

I  am  sure  that  His  name  is  Love, 


1 84  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

And  He  never  will  let  me  lose  my  way 
To  my  rest  in  His  home  above. 

When  Alice  Gary  died,  Mrs.  Sangster  mourned  her 
as  only  one  sweet  singer  can  really  mourn  another,  and 
sang  this  tender  requiem  in  The  Independent : 

ALICE  CARY. 

Ah !  Spring  will  bring  us  back  the  birds 

And  we  shall  hear  their  singing, 
From  flickering  shade  of  leaf  and  bough, 

Its  wildwood  sweetness  flinging ! 
And  warp  of  sun  and  woof  of  rain 

Shall  cross  the  flying  hours, 
Till  dimpling  vale  and  climbing  hill 

Are  broidered  fair  with  flowers  ! 

But  ever  through  the  April  mists, 

And  through  the  Maytime  splendor, 
We  '11  miss  the  music  of  her  voice, 

So  passion-thrilled  and  tender. 
We  '11  weary  when  the  days  are  long, 

And  o'er  our  life-task  linger, 
And  by  how  much  we  miss  the  song 

Our  hearts  shall  mourn  the  singer  ! 

The  saintly  patience  of  thy  life, 

O  lovely  one  departed  ! 
Hath  cheered  the  fainting  in  the  strife, 

Hath  helped  the  heavy-hearted  ; 
Thy  words  went   forth  like  carrier  doves, 

On  swift  white  wings  of  blessing, 
All  fearless  to  rebuke  the  wrong, 

All  loyal  faith  confessing. 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  185 

In  solemn  shadow  of  the  pines, 

Where  prairie  winds  are  swe£ping, 
It  shall  be  said  of  thee  to-day, 

"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping .' " 
The  while  that  £ears  are  falling  fast, 

The  light  of  heaven  breaking 
Across  the  memory  of  thy  past 

Shall  prophesy  thy  waking. 
O,  love  !  our  homes  are  reft  in  thee 

By  every  tender  token  ! 
A  household  word,  thy  gentle  name 

Where  households  meet,  is  spoken  ; 
And  when  our  Father  gathers  all 

His  children  dear  together, 
We  '11  bless  thee,  when  we  meet  at  home, 

For  thou  hast  helped  us  hither  ! 

When  Margaret  E.  Sangster  dies  the  world  will 
mourn  a  singer  not  less  sweet  and  cheer-giving  than 
Miss  Gary,  and  if  the  time  comes  not  too  soon,  not  less 
known.  May  Heaven  hold  the  day  far  distant ;  and  mean- 
while may  we  be  often  touched  to  deeper  tenderness  and 
purer  life  by  the  songs  she  shall  sing ! 


SIMEON  TUCKER   CLARK. 

jHE  amateur  poet  belongs  to  no  class.  He,  or 
she,  may  be  almost  anything  else,  plus  a  poet. 
Poetry  is  in  the  man,  or  in  the  woman,  and  is  not 
necessarily  part  of  an  individual's  calling.  Happy  indeed 
are  they,  however,  who  find  somewhat  of  poetic  grace  in 
all  their  work,  and  who  catch  some  poetic  impulse  from 
the  dullest  duty  they  perform.  These  are  the  true  poets, 
whom  God  has  royally  endowed  ;  they  are  rich  in  their 
divine  gift  of  joy,  albeit  toilers  among  the  poor. 

This  volume  justifies  our  declaration  concerning  am- 
ateur poets.  It  treats  among  others  of  a  professional  con- 
cert singer,  a  politic al  editor,  a  public  lecturer,  a  financial 
officer  of  the  Government,  a  country  journalist,  a  mer- 
chant's, clerk,  a  school  teacher  and  a  lawyer ;  as  also  of 
a  young  girl  but  lately  out  of  school,  a  young  wife  with 
wedded  happiness  just  begun,  a  widow  mourning  her 
lost  companion,  a  young  mother  rejoicing  over  her  babes, 
another  ever  remembering  those  she  has  lost,  a  gray-haired 
matron  proud  of  her  grown  up  youth.  These,  with  others, 
prove  that  poetic  feeling  will  exist  in  any  walk  of  life,  and 
that  poetic  expression  is  heard  amid  most  diverse  sur 
roundings  and  under  conditions  the  most  unlike 


1 88  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

We  are  now  about  to  speak  of  one  whose  divine  sense 
breathes  out  amid  the  exacting  calls  of  medical  practice, 
who  weds  the  gift  of  healing  to  the  gift  of  song, — Dr.  S. 
T.  Clark,  of  Lockport,  N.  Y.  He  has  written  much- 
more  than  almost  any  other  Newspaper  Poet  we  have — 
and  his  productions  have  appeared  in  some  of  our  best 
periodicals.  A  delicate  spring  time  fancy,  published  first 
in  The  Aldine  when  under  editorship  of  R.  H.  Stoddard, 
has  been  many  times  reprinted.  It  is  entitled 

COMING  AND  GOING. 

Winds,  to-day,  from  yonder  lilacs,  blowing   through  my  open 

door, 
Bore  their  fragrance  to  a  baby  who  had  never  breathed  before. 

But  the  dear  old  man  who  knew  them,  just  as  fresh  and  pur- 
ple then, 
Seventy  years  ago,  as  now,  will  never,  never  breathe  again  ! 

One  was  going  up  to  heaven  as  the  other  came  to  earth  ; 
And  the  mortals  and  immortals  each  made  record  of  a  birth  ; 

As  two  souls  upon  the  boundary  which  divides  that  world  from 

this, 
Met  and  parted,  in  the  melting  of  a  first  and  last  fond  kiss ! 

With  a  weary  wail  of  welcome  saw  the  little  child  the  day  ! 
With  a  song  of  praise  triumphant  passed  the  patriarch  away  ' 

All  the  same — the  cradled  cherub  or    the   pulseless,    coffined 

clod— 
£ife   and  death  alike  are  angels  and  the  messengers  of  God 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  iSg 

It  gives  a  clue  to  Dr.  Clark's  mental  characteristics, 
as  also  to  his  temperament.  He  is  thoughtful,  earnest, 
religious.  Suggestions  are  very  fruitful  with  him  ;  he 
catches  them  on  the  wing,  and  turns  them  quickly  to  his 
behoof.  He  is  tender  of  sentiment,  lavish  of  sympathy, 
rich  in  reflection,  overflowing  with  love. 

Simeon  Tucker  Clark  was  born  in  Canton,  Norfolk 
county,  Mass.,  October  loth,  1836,  his  father  being  Rev. 
Nathan  Sears  Clark,  a  Methodist  clergyman.  His  mother, 
formerly  Laura  S.  Swift,  composed  with  great  facility  in 
verse,  often  writing  acrostics,  elegies,  rhymed  epistles,  and 
sometimes  contributing  to  The  Boston  Olive  Branch, 
and  the  True  Odd  Fellow.  Her  son,  as  he  once  assured 
us,  began  to  rhyme  before  he  could  write,  and  has  never 
stopped. 

He  betrayed  the  true  literary  bent,  in  early  boyhood. 
One  of  his  teachers  says  of  him  : — "I  knew  him  as  a 
school-boy,  a  child  of  the  true  poetic  organization,  gentle 
and  brave,  but  morbidly  sensitive  to  praise  or  reproof.  To 
a  girlish  admiration  of  flowers  was  added  a  naturalist's 
knowledge  of  them  ;  in  fact,  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen  all 
the  delights  of  natural  science  were  open  to  him.  At 
this  time  I  remember  of  remarking  to  another  of  his 
teachers  that  although  my  life  had  been  spent  in  the  soci- 
ety of  children  of  culture,  I  had  never,  nor  have  I  ever, 
seen  a  youth  whose  reading  had  been  so  extensive  or  so 
critical."  His  school  compositions  were  usually  inverse, 


1 90 


WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


the  same  authority  informs  us  ;  and  to  this  fact,  as  also  to 
a  fine  musical  ear,  well  cultured,  we  must  attribute  the 
uncommon  perfection  of  his  rhythm  now.  Indeed,  his 
earliest  published  efforts  were  marked  by  peculiar  sweet- 
ness of  melody.  Mere  melodiousness  does  not  make 
poetry,  but  poetry  without  music  in  it  is  like  a  half-life 
without  its  complement.  Upon  its  own  wings  of  song 
should  poetry  fly,  and  flying  thus,  it  will  fly  far, — from 
heart  to  heart,  from  home  to  home,  from  clime  to  clime. 
The  music  of  a  thought  has  often  won  it  immortality. 
Not  many  regrets  have  found  expression  in  such  sweet 
grace  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  as  is  manifest  in  this,  written 
several  years  ago,  and  of  frequent  appearance  as  a  waif : 

GERALDINE, 

Has  any  one  seen 
My  lost  Geraldine  ? 
My  beautiful,  dutiful,  dear  Geraldine  ! 
Has  she  been  this  way 
In  the  course  of  the  day  ? 

Tell  me  truly,  ye  swains  . 

You  would  know  Geraldine, 
My  idolized  queen, 

By  the  glimmering,  shimmering,  silvery  sheen 
Of  her  curling  hair 
As  it  floats  on  the  air 

In  the  glamouring  light 

I  sought  Geraldine 
In  the  meadows  green, 
Where  the  rarest,  the  fairest  of  flowers  were  seen  : 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  191 

'  But  a  stranger  was  there, 
Surpassingly  fair, 

That  filled  me  with  woe. 

For  never  before 
On  mountain  or  moor, 

Such  a  heavenly-hued,  pearl-bedewed  flower  I  am  sure 
Ever  raised  its  fair  form 
To  the  sunshine  or  storm  ; 
But  it  could  not  be  mine. 

For  a  wild  honey  bee 
From  over  the  sea, 

Thence  coming,  loud  humming,  unmindful  of  me, 
For  his  holiday  treat 
Sipped  the  nectaral  sweet 

That  should  have  been  mine. 

Then  an  oriole  came 
With  its  bosom  of  flame, 

And  so  dearly,  sincerely,  it  warbled  her  name — 
I  gladly  had  pressed 
The  bright  bird  to  my  breast, 
"When  it  flew  from  my  sight. 

I  have  sought  Geraldine 
In  all  places,  I  ween — 

In  the  night,  where  the  white  marble  monuments  gleam 
'Neath  the  yew's  solemn  shade, 
To  tell  where  is  laid 
A  handful  of  dust ! 

And  I  found  not  my  bride, 
But  a  grave  for  my  pride, 

For  each  mound  that  I  found  had  a  mound  by  its  side  ; 
And  if  I  were  to  die 


192  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

I  could  not  even  lie 

By  my  Geraldine's  side. 

Alas  !  none  have  seen 
This  lost  Geraldine— 
Unreal,  ideal,  serene  Geraldine  ! 

Long,  long  is  the  day 
Ere  she  passes  this  way  ! 
Farewell  to  ye  swains  ! 

Choosing  the  profession  of  medicine,  and  duly 
awarded  the  degree  of  M.  D.  by  Berkshire  Medical 
College  in  1860,  supplemented  by  the  honorarium  of 
A.  M.  from  Genesee  College  since,  Dr.  Clark  gave  him- 
self up  to  it  with  all  that  zeal  and  enthusiasm  so  striking 
in  his  nature,  and  is  now  one  of  the  leading  physicians 
in  the  City  of  Locks.  With  him,  poetry  has  been  no  sen- 
timental diversion  from  daily  duties.  It  has  been  but  a 
constant  pleasure,  we  may  say,  in  the  very  midst  of  duty. 
It  has  helped  to  keep  his  heart  warm  and  his  soul  sensi- 
tive ;  it  has  taught  him  what  it  is  ever  ready  to  teach 
those  in  communion  with  it — the  sweetness  and  charm 
of  Hie,  the  hidden  meaning  of  life's  varied  forms,  the 
silent  speech  of  marble  statue  and  of  silver  wave.  Hence, 

PERDITA. 

Her  fair  vouner  arms  embrace  the  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died: 

The  star  of  faith  beams  on  her  brow, 
The  anchor — Hope — is  by  her  side  ; 

Her  parting  lips  are  moved  in  prayer, 
Her  falling  tears  are  not  of  woe  , 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK  ig$ 

For  in  communion  with  her  Lord, 
She  finds  her  heaven  begun  below. 

Oh  !  better  never  earthly  love 

Had  robbed  the  cross  of  such  a  saint ; 
That  faith  should  dim  and  hope  decline, 

Or  prayer  be  changed  to  sad  complaint. 
Her  arms  embrace — but  not  the  cross  ; 

Her  lips  are  ripe— but  not  with  prayer  ; 
She  holds  communion  with  her  Lord — 

But  Love  is  lord  and  master  there  ! 

How  still  and  cold  the  marble  lies  ! 

What  sculptor  wrought  that  statue  grand. 
So  beautiful,  so  like  divine  ? 

>.  No  workman  of  unskillful  hand  ; 
In  every  clime,  his  art  was  learned ; 

And  all  the  world  has  owned  his  fame ; 
For  God  Himself  his  master  was, 

A.nd  Death  the  grand  old  master's  name. 

This  was  originally  contributed  to  Appletoris  Jour- 
nal, and  is  admirable,  in  its  way.  It  has  been  frequently 
copied.  Better  even  than  this,  however,  is  the  following 
apostrophe,  which  originally  appeared  in  Godeys  Maga- 
zine, addressed 

TO  7 HE  VENUS  OF  MILO. 

It  matters  not  whose  skill  thy  form  created, 
What  hours  he  sat  beside  thy  tomb  alone  ; 

Or  how  he  watched  and  wept,  or  wrought  and  waited, 
As  grain  by  grain  he  rolled  away  the  stone. 

Until,  at  last,  in  glorious  resurrection 


194  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

His  dead  dream  rose,  transformed,  no  more  to  die, 
Anointed  from  the  horn  of  heaven's  perfection 
As  all  our  dead  dreams  shall  be  by-and-by ! 

His  name  and  clime  are  lost,  but  yet  right  royal 

He  stands  the  peer  of  any  time  or  man : 
His  kingly  head  and  skillful  hand  in  loyal 

Pursuit  of  truth  aspired  to  nature's  plan  — 
Created,  gave  the  world  thy  stony  splendor, 

Revealed  the  beautiful  that  was  to  be  — 
Compelled  the  ministry  of  art  to  render 

Invisible  thought,  a  visible  form  in  thee. 

Let  Pagans  call  thee  Venus  or  Minerva, 

Diana,  Ceres,  it  is  all  the  same ; 
Or  Christians,  worshipping  in  holy  fervor, 

Adore  thee  by  the  Virgin  Mother's  name  : 
Thou  art  still  more;  in  thy  Divine  Creation 

The  light  of  genius  evermore  shall  beam  — 
Thoughts  petrified  —  soul-throbs  in  preservation  — 

The  marble  memory  of  a  sculptor's  dream ! 

As  a  writer  of  sonnets  Dr.  Clark  succeeds  beyond 
the  average.  In  the  following  we  have  three  exquisite 
stanzas,  which  in  turn  embody  a  most  exquisite  idea  : 

THREE  SONNETS  BUT  NO  SONG. 
Before  Singing, 

In  vain  you  ask  me,  "  Shall  I  sing  to-day?" 
I  may  be  tuneless  till  this  time  next  year ; 
But'if  I  sing,  my  song   shall  feel  no  fear 
Or  sorrow,  should  you  turn  in  scorn  away, 
And  shame  my  simple  strain,  or  smile  and  say — 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 

As   you  have  done  before  with  scoff  and  sneer 
"The  owl  and  not  the  nightingale  I  hear  ;" 
For  when  heaven  sends  the  peace  for  which  I  pray 
My  soul  will  soar  as  borne  on  eagle's  wings, 

And  prayer  shall  lose  itself  in  perfect  praise  ! 
God  will  except  the  offering  that  I  bring 

Though  you  despise  my  inharmonious  lays. 
So  shall  I  keep  my  harp-strings  tuned  and  bright ; 
And  sing  again  when  God  gives  me  the  light ! 

The  Interlude. 

0  !  I  have  been  a  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

My  mother — sleeping  now  beneath  the  sod, 

Gave  me,  ere  I  was  born,  in  prayer  to  God 
To  be  His  child.  Let  him  declare  who  dares 
That  she,  in  glory,  now  no  longer  cares 

To  shield  my  shoulders  from  the  lifted  rod  ; 

Or,  that  the  pathway  that  my  feet  have  trod 
Has  not  been  gleaned  by  her  from  gins  and  snares. 
No  hour  that  I  have  lived  but  some  sweet  word 

From  woman's  lip  has  entered  heaven  for  me, 
And,  by  God's  gracious  tenderness  been  heard 

And  answered  in  some  blessing  full  and  free. 
The  eyes  I  oftenest  caused  on  earth  to  weep, 
In  heaven,  for  me,  their  ceaseless  vigils  keep  ! 

A  fter   Singing. 

Great  Son  of  God  !  O  Jesus — brother  mine — 
My  song  has  come  and  gone,  and  not  a  word 
By  other  eye  or  ear  was  seen  or  heard  ! 

1  could  not  write  or  sing  Thy  love  divine, 
I  only  felt  it,  and  the  outward  sign 

Was  love  to  all  things  that  the  Godhead  stirred 


196  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

To  life  and  being — seraph,  man,  beast,  bird — 
I  loved  all  perfectly,  for  all  were  Thine  ! 
And  the  strange  music  in  my  soul  was  sweet ! 

Men  only  heard  the  echo,  that  was  free, 
But  the  grand  harmony  was  only  meet 

For  me  to  hear,  and  only  once  for  me  ! 
Farewell,  remembered  song !     In  heaven  above 
The  angels  call  thee —  Universal  Love  !- 

We  will  quote  but  one  other  sonnet,  suggested  by 
the  last  words  of  Henry  Timrod,  South  Carolina's  poet  : 

"LOVE  IS  SWEETER  THAN  REST.  " 

Life  brings  no  burden  to  be  borne  so  great, 
Heaven  has  no  rest  so  sweet  to  offer  me 
That  I  would  seek  repose,  if  it  must  be 

Without  thy  love,  and  from  thee  separate. 

For  "love  is  sweeter  than  rest,"  and  that  estate 
Is  mine  in  thee.     The  fruit  of  every  tree 
May  turn  to  ashes  in  my  mouth  ;  the  sea 

May  drown  my  r\rgosies  with  all  their  freight  : 

The  winds  may  scatter  in  their  wanton  glee 
The  gatherings  of  my  early  toil  and  late  : 

Or  flame,  or  pestilence  leave  only  thee  ; 
I  still  will  bear  all  burdens,  glad  to  wait 

And  work  with  thee,  nor  ever  sigh  to  see 

Lethean  rest  from  love's  sweet  service  free  ! 

The  unity  of  this,  and  the  simplicity  of  its  rhyme, 
are  peculiar.  We  have  really  but  two  rhyming  words  in 
the  fourteen  lines — "great,"  in  the  first  line,  has  five 
words  that  rhyme  with  it;  and  "me/  in  the  second 
line,  has  seven  rhyming  in  turn  with  that. 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  197 

Perhaps  the  following,  written  for  the  Buffalo 
Courier,  illustrates  Dr.  Clark's  felicity  of  thought,  and 
tenderness  of  feeling,  as  well  as  anything  we  have  now  at 
hand. 

SYMPA  THY. 

His  kindly  kisses,  tremulous  and  tender, 

Falling  like  blessings  on  my  brow  and  cheek, 
Filled  all  my  soul  with  such  supernal  splendor, 

As  my  dumb  lips  could  never  frame  to  speak  ; 
Nave,  aisle  and  chancel  of  my  heart  were  lighted  ; 

The  altar,  once  a-cold,  was  all  aflame, 
And  where  I  strayed  and  prayed,  a  nun  benighted, 

Bright,  light  and  plain  the  path  of  life  became. 

His  words  of  sympathy,  like  sweet  bells  ringing, 

Called  every  angel  in  my  breast  to  prayer  ; 
And  Hope,  the  surpliced  priest,  his  censer  swinging, 

With  friendship's  incense,  sweetened  every  care  ; 
Now  all  about  me,   in  their  graves  are  sleeping 

Forgotten  fears,  born  in  my  darker  days, 
And  where  they  moulder,   I  am  ever  reaping 

The  golden  grain  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

And  for  such  fruit,   I  breathe  a  benediction 

On  him  the  lord  of  all  my  earthly  love, 
For  only  shall  the  day  of  crucifixion, 

Upon  my  calendar  be  placed  above 
That  day  of  days,  when,  from  his  higher  station 

He  reached  with  helping  hand  and  pitying  eye, 
And  looked  upon  and  touched,  in  tribulation, 

A  starving  soul,  the  world  had  doomed  to  die. 


198  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

It  is  certainly  very  graceful,  very  sympathetic,  very 
pure  and  very  sweet.  And  this,  written,  also  for  the 
Courier,  will  bear  re-reading  many  times,  and  will  seem 
to  gain  in  rhythmic  charm  and  loving  remembrance  with 
each  repetition  : 

GOLDEN  ROD. 

It  would  please  me  well,  could  my  iailor  tell 
The  home  and  the  name  of  the  child  who  came 

With  flowers  to  my  cell  ! 
Such  flowers  as  wave  on  my  mother's  grave 

In  a  woodland  dell ! 

For  the  maid  was  fair  ; 
And  her  nut-brown  hair  and  saintly  air 

Were  a  sight  divine  ; 
But  human  art  never  pierced  a  heart 

As  she  pierced  mine 

With  a  scepter  grand — 
With  the  graceful  nod  of  a  Golden-rod 

In  her  dimpled  hand — 
A  simple  spire  with  a  crown  of  fire 
That  burns  and  glows  when  the  south  wind  blows 

O'er  the  fragrant  land  ! 

Long  years  gone  by  my  mother  and  I 
Like  groom  and  bride  rode  side  by  side 

With  such  untold  love, 
That  the  Blessed  Three  alone  could  be 

More  blest  than  we 

In  the  couits  above  ! 
I  remember  the  day,  and  the  bright  birds'  play, 

And  their  carols  gay  ; 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK. 

My  mother's  face  and  her  words  of  grace  ; 

The  fountain's  spray ; 
The  ringing  roar  from  the  singing  shore 
Of  a  swollen  stream  o'er  a  rocky  floor  ; 
The  threatened  shower  at  the  noon-tide  hour ; 

The  mountains  gray  ; 

And  the  rose  red  tips  of"  those  white  winged  ships 
That  sail  away  with  the  purple  day 

Into  sun-set  bay  ; 

Churches  and  towers  and  hosts  of  flowers — 
Like  troops  of  angels  the  beautiful  hours 

Encamped  around  ! 
And,  in  accents  mild,  she  said — "  My, child 

This  is  holy  ground  ! 

Though  in  garden,  hedge,  and  on  lofty  ledge, 
And  in  sylvan  bowers  I  see  fresh  flowers 

With  the  fronds'  at  rest, 
Still  the  Golden-rod  of  the  road-side  clod 

Is  of  all,  the  best  ! 

In  its  golden  sheen  I  have  always  seen 
The  scepter,  touched  by  the  Persian  Queen 

Who  had  favor  gained  ; 
And  this  flower  shall  be  henceforth  to  thee 
A  visible  sign  of  God's  love  and  mine — 

A  love  unfeigned  ! " 

So  passed  the  hours.  j 

The  very  next  day  I  sailed  away  ! 
The  ship  has  never  returned  they  say ; 

And  a  dark  cloud  lowers  ! 

From  land  to  sea, 
Since  those  glad  days,  through  devious  ways 

My  feet  have  trod  ; 
And  at  last  I  fell  in  this  felon's  cell, 


200  IV A  IF  S  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Where  the  sweet  child  came  in  her  dear  Lord's  name, 
And  a  Golden-rod  as  the  scepter  of  God 

Held  out  to  me  ! 
And  I  prayed  once  more  as  I  prayed  before 

My  mother  died  ; 
And  the  prayers  and  tears  of  her  three-score  years 

Are  satisfied  ! 

Dr.  Clark's  fancy  is  often  bold,  even  to  the  astonish- 
ing of  him  who  reads.  The  folio  wine-  noem  is  so  daring 
in  conception,  albeit  so  daintily  short,  that  one  must 
peruse  it  more  than  once  to  get  a  full  sense  of  its  real 
merit.  The  fancy  which  begat  it  may  have  been  morbid, 
but  it  was  not  weak  : 

SWEET  DEATH. 

He  is  a  stranger  to  supremest  pleasure 
Who  does  not  covet  Death,  or  is  afraid 

To  listen  to  the  low,  melodious  measure 

Sung  by  that  siren,  when  her  court  is  paid  ! 

Who  deems  the  numbness  that  her  touch  is  giving, 

Alike  to  agony,  akin  to  pain  ? 
Not  he  who  knows  the  mystery  of  living — 

The  whirlpool-heart,  the  fiery  furnace  brain  ! 

I  lie  alone,  upon  no  bed  of  roses  ! 

Sleep  does  not  close  my  weary  watching  eyes  ; 
For  just  beside  me,  on  her  couch,  reposes 

Death — my  coy  love — but  Life  between  us  lies  ! 

Come  to  my  arms,  thou  chaste  and  charming  maiden  ! 

Kiss  me,  until  my  lips  are  cold  as  thine  ! 
Smooth  down  these  eyelids  with  such  sorrow  laden  ; 

And  closely  press  thine  icy  breast  to  mine. 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  2OI 

Aye,  taunt  awhile,  and  still  awhile  deride  me ; 

And  pout  thy  lips,  and  turn  thy  head  aside  ! 
One  hope  remains  that  cannot  be  denied  me«— 

When  I  am  dead,  Death,  thou  wilt  be  my  bride  ' 

A  member  of  the  Masonic  order,  Dr.  Clark  has 
written  a  number  of  poems  with  special  reference  there- 
to, and  one  of  thes%  "Iscariot,"  has  journeyed  far, 
having  achieved  for  its  author  a  transatlantic  reputation. 

The  religious  side  of  Dr.  Clark's  nature  is  very 
marked.  As  a  poet  he  has  found  widest  recognition 
through  his  devotional  pieces,  some  of  which  have  been 
reproduced  in  collections  of  religious  verse,  ana  have 
thus  obtained  a  permanent  place  among  their  kind. 

"  Teneo  et  Teneor" — I  hold  and  I  am  held — and 
"The  Thorn  and  Cross,"  both  originally  written  for 
Tht  Rural  Home,  have  found  worthy  position  in  popu- 
lar volumes,  the  one  in  "The  Changed  Cross,"  and  the 
other  in  a  later  collection,  "The  Chamber  of  Peace." 
We  quote  the  latter  : 

THE  THORN  AND  THE  CROSS. 

"  There  was  given  unto  me  a  thorn  in  the  flesh. "—  2  Cor. 
xii.  7. 

"  And  whosoever  doth  not  bear  his  cross' and  come  after  me, 
cannoi  be  my  disciple. '  —St.  Luke  xiv.  27. 

The  thorn  is  very  sharp,  oh  !  righteous  Master  ; 

The  flesh  is  weak  ; 
And  drops  of  blood  and  blinding  tears  fall  faster 

Than  I  can  speak  ! 


202  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Ah  !  deeply  in  my  bosom  it  is  driven 

To  rend  and  tear, 
Pressed  by  the  rugged  cross  that  thou  hast  given 

For  us  to  bear  ! 

I  could  endure  the  thorn,  though  fiercely  galling, 

If  that  were  all ; 
Or  bear  the  cross  without  a  fear  of  falling — 

Yea,  count  it  small 
If  I  could  only  bear  it  on  my  shoulder, 

And  not  my  breast, 
Where  goads  the  thorn  ;  my  heart  would  then  grow  bolder, 

Blest  with  such  rest. 

I  had  borne  either,  singly  ;  both  united 

Have  vanquished  me  ! 
I  prostrate  lie,  oppressed,   distressed,  benighted, 

And  cry  to  Thee  ! 
O,  Jesus,  place  Thy  hand  beneath  the  burden 

A  little  while  ; 
Or  soothe  the  wounds  by  that  all-healing  guerdon, 

A  Saviour's  smile  ! 

He  comes — He  lifts — He  soothes.     A  little  longer 

I  plod  my  way 
His  gracious  strength  has  made  my  sad  soul  stronger 

To  last  the  day. 
But  cross  and  thorn  will  tempt,  until  the  closing 

Of  mortal  life  ; 
And  I  shall  show,  although  in  heaven  reposing, 

The  scars  of  strife, 

One  or  two  of  the  poems  previously  given,   show 
this  religious  spirit  very  plainly.     We  will  reproduce  one 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  203 

more,   in  illustration,    and  one  of  Dr.   Clark's   simplest 
and  most  practical  bits  of  verse  : 

TOWARD  EM  MA  US. 
St.  Luke,  Chap,  xxiv,  32. 

"A  journeying  to  Emmaus  ; 
The  grandest  man  of  men  with  us — 
The  Christ  of  God  was  then  with  us, 

As  we  went  down  to  Emmaus. 
How  burned  our  hearts  upon  the  way 
At  every  word  we  heard  Him  say  ! 
We  never  may  forget  the  day 

We  journeyed  down  to  Emmaus  !" 

Oh  !  blest  disciples — chosen  two — 
How  gladly  had  we  walked  with  you 
And \ talked  of  Him,  who  talked  with  you 

As  you  went  down  to  Emmaus  ! 
Have  touched  the  hand,  and  found  it  warm. 
That  raised  the  dead  and  stilled  the  storm  ; 
Have  worshiped  God  in  human  form 

As  He  walked  down  to  Emmaus  ! 

But  Jesus  walks  and  talks  with  men 

As  perfectly  to-day,  as  then, 

And  hearts  burn  now,  as  yours  burned  when 

You  walked  with  Christ  to  Emmaus  ! 
In  starless  night  or  sunless  day, 
Whoever  walks  life's  weary  way 
Forgetting  not  to  watch  and  pray, 

Is  journeying  to  Emmaus. 

Since  poets  began   to  sing,   they  have  sung  of  the 
sea.      From  earliest  time  old  ocean  has  been  to  them  a 


204  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

meditation  and  a  mystery,  a  picture  and  a  plaint.  Cole- 
ridge rhymed  in  wild,  weird  way  of  "  The  Ancient  Mari- 
ner ;"  Byron  sounded  the  majestic  deep  with  round, 
majestic  lines.  Yet  none  but  Dr.  Clark  has  told  us 
fittingly 

WHY  THE  SEA   COMPLAINS. 

Early  in  boyhood  the  sighing  and  sobbing 

Sound  of  the  sea-wave  was  oft  in  my  ears, 
Drowning  the  voice  of  my  crying,  and  robbing 

Sleep  from  young  eyes  growing  pale  from  their  tears. 
Down  by  the  shore  when  the  morning  was  breaking 

Often  I  questioned  and  pitied  the  sea  ; 
And  the  great  deep,  from  its  sad  sorrow  waking, 

One  day  grew  calm,  and  made  answer  to  me. 

That  was  the  time  of  his  tender  confession  ; 

That  was  the  hour  when  his  secret  was  told  ; 
Just  as  the  sun  and  his  royal  procession 

Marched  up  the  east  with  their  banners  of  gold  ; 
Just  as  a  rivulet,  loving,  elated, 

Paused  for  a  moment,  for  strength,  ere  she  sprang 
Into  the  arms  of  Old  Ocean,  who  waited 

To  answer  the  questioning  song  that  I  sang. 

Ocean,  give  ear  to  the  musical  waters 

Sliding  down  hill-side  and  gliding  through  lea — 

The  bright  little  brooklet  that  saucily  scatters 
Sparkling,  pure  drops,  as  in  prodigal  glee 

And  in  trustful  profusion,  she  pours  out  for  thee 

Her  life's  blood  !  Now  what  wilt  thou   give  her  ?    O  sea  i 

"  I  will  give  her  my  all — my  heart  and  my  treasure — 
And  cherish  her  ever  with  tenderest  care  : 


SIMEON  TUCKER  CLARK.  205 

She  may  float  on  my  bosom  and  lie  at  her  leisure 

In  these  briny  arms  !  but  the  sun  will  not  spare 
One  so  lovely  and  fair  :     Some  sweet  summer  day 
He  will  dazzle  and  charm  her  and  steal  her  away  ! 

"All  my  life  long  I  am  mourning  in  sorrow  ; 

Longing  for  loves  he  has  taken  from  me  ; 
Only  the  hope  of  some  swift  coming  morrow 

Calms  the  sad  soul  of  the  sullen,  salt  sea — 
When  brooklet  and  dew-drop  and  soft  summer  rain 
May  bring  to  my  bosom  my  darlings  again." 

Ocean,  like  thee,  mortals  mourn  over  losses — 

Pleasures  long  perished  while  sorrows  remain  ; 
Here  are  no  shoulders  unburdened  by  crosses, 

Eyelids  umear-stained  or  hearts  without  pain  ! 
But  when  the  angel  calls  all  souls  before  Him 

Who  is  the  brightness  and  glory  of  Heaven, 
Then  shall  we  know  as  we  bow  and  adore  Him, 

All  things  are  sure  to  the  spirit  forgiven  ! 

We  have  quoted  somewhat  freely  from  Dr.  Clark's 
writings,  though  not  as  largely  as  we  should  like  to  do. 
But  having  partially  succeeded  in  illustrating  his  varied 
lines  of  thought,  and  showing  his  range  of  style,  we 
must  stay  our  hand. 

Dr.  Clark  has  written  no  long  poem  since  he  first 
put  forth  "  Josephine" — a  youthful  venture  he  has  quite 
outgrown — save  a  dramatic  effort  for  lyceum  reading, 
which  we  have  heard  well  spoken  of.  The  public  has  a 
right  to  expect  something  elaborate  from  the  maturity  of 
his  powers.  As  Prof.  Small  remarked  of  him  :  "With  a 


206  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

weird  imagination  that  reminds  one  of  Hawthorne  and 
Foe,  he  unites  the  chastity  of  Longfellow  and  the  devo- 
tion of  Heber,  but  he  is  like  neither  of  them,  and  be- 
longs to  no  school.  He  is  not  Byronic,  Tennyso-nian, 
or  Swinburnish.  He  leaves  his  own  mark  on  every  poem 
he  writes." 

In  personal  address  Dr.  Clark  is  one  of  few,  adding 
the  culture  of  the  man  of  letters  to  the  suavity  and  ease 
of  a  man  of  the  world.  He  is  a  genial  companion,  an 
ardent  friend,  a  zealous  defender  of  the  weak  and  a  sin- 
cere hater  of  shams.  With  a  warm,  woman-like  temper- 
ament, his  affections  flow  out  generously  towards  those 
whose  natures  are  congenial  with  his  own,  and  such  find 
in  him  unswerving  loyalty  of  heart  and  unhesitating 
largess  of  sympathy.  And  so,  as  a  friend  of  real  literary 
art,  he  can  never  be  disloyal  to  it,  or  at  discord  therewith. 


KATE     B.   W.    BARNES. 

JMONG  the  many  nommes  de  plume  familiar  to 
newspaper  readers,  few  are  so  pleasantly  known 
as  one  always  associated  with  pure  sentiment 
and  tender  reflectiveness — one  which,  perhaps  for  this 
very  reason,  is  loved  where  Sabbath-school  songs  are  sung 
—  "Kate  Cameron."  Indeed,  thousands  will  be  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  this  is  not  a  genuine  cognomen,  so 
natural  does  it  sound,  so  long  has  it  appeared  in  print. 
The  legions  of  little  singers  who  have  sung  "  Marching 
Along,"  recognize  it,  we  presume,  as  the  real  name  of 
their  good  friend  who  penned  that  popular  hymn,  and 
may  not  care  to  be  told  that  she  bore  another.  Yet  such 
is  the  fact;  and  that  other,  often  on  the  lips  of  apprecia-. 
tive  acquaintances,  in  Rochester  and  elsewhere,  was  Mrs. 
K.  B.  W.  Barnes.  They  called  her  "  Kitty,  "  on  the  day  of 
her  birth,  and  though  christened  Maria  Burbank  Wil- 
liams, in  good  time,  the  pet  name  clung  to  her,  and  quite 
superseded  the  one  which  was  rightfully  hers,  so  that  she 
was  Kittie  Williams,  until  her  marriage  day. 

Mrs.  Barnes  was  born  in  Deerfield,  Massachusetts, 
May  24th,  1836,  and  love  of  poetry  was  born  in  her.  An 
inveterate  reader  at  an  early  age,  she  did  not  begin  to 
transcribe  her  own  thoughts  until  nearly  twelve  years  old, 


208  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS 

but  after  that  her  school-girl  effusions  were  numerous, 
for  in  "  compositions  "  and  correspondence  she  delighted. 
"When  seventeen  her  first  printed  effort  appeared  in  The 
Springfield  Republican,  over  the  signature  of  ''Viola." 
Soon  afterward  she  assumed  the  nomme  de  plume  we  have 
mentioned,  and  wrote  occasionally  for  various  papers,  until 
coming  to  Rodhester  in  1856,  as  the  wife  of  Dr.  Norman  S. 
Barnes.  Then  her  natural  inclination  was  more  regularly 
indulged,  and  her  pen  found  quite  constant  employment. 
She  wrote  many  stories  and  poems  for  Moore  s  Rural  New- 
Yorker,  and  for  fifteen  months  edited  the  Journal  of  the 
Home,  which  necessitated  much  writing. 

In  July,  1860,  she  first  contributed  to  the  columns  of 
the  Advocate  and  Guardian,  the  organ  of  the  New  York 
Home  for  the  Friendless.  One  of  her  early  poems 
in  that  periodical  began  : 

Oh  !  save  the  little  children 

Of  poverty  and  crime, 
Whose  bitter  wail  is  sounding 

Through  the  dim  aisles  of  Time. 

Ye  may  not  cleanse  the  torrent, 
Whose  course  is  strong  and  sure, 

But,  ah  !  it  needeth  little  skill 
To  make  the  fountain  pure  ! 

It  caught  the  attention  of  William  B.  Bradbury, 
who  married  it  to  music,  and  who  thereafter  employed 
Mrs.  Barnes' pen  often,  until  his  death,  in  the  production 
of  hymns  for  his  Sabbath-school  singing  books.  Some 


KATE  B.    W.  BARNES. 


209 


these  have  been  sung  in  almost  every  Sabbath-school  in 
the  land.  "Marching  Along,  "  perhaps  led  the  van  in 
popularity,  but  "We  're  nearer  Home/'  "The  Golden 
City,"  "The  Shining  Hills  of  Glory,  "  and  others,  are 
hardly  less  known.  After  Mr.  Bradbury's  death  and  until 
ner  own,  which  cccurred  on  the  iQth  of  May,  1873,  Mrs. 
Barnes  svrote  for  several  other  musical  composers,  having 
a  happy  talent  for  combining  correct  rhythm  and  attrac- 
tive sentiment  which  is  prized  by  all  who,  as  good  com- 
posers ever  do,  deem  these  essential  to  a  song's  success. 

It  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  a  composer  is  also  a 
poet.  Moore  could  sing  his  own  songs  ;  so,  also,  can 
and  does  James  G.  Clark.  There  are  a  few  other  isolated 
instances  of  this  kind  ;  but,  as  a  general  rule,  the  com- 
poser procures  his  text  from  inspiration  outside  his  own. 
Dr.  Thomas  Hastings — dear  old  man  !  to  whom  the 
years  were  kind  because  he  sang  so  sweetly — used  to  pen 
a  hymn  occasionally  ;  and  his  few  hymns  were  like  his 
many  melodies,  tender  and  uplifting,  and  only  made  us 
wish  he  would  write  more.  Lowell  Mason,  we  believe, 
never  attempted  hymn  composition.  Bradbury  rarely 
attempted  it,  seeming  content  with  the  service  of  others, 
where  he  could  have  done  uniformly  well  himself 
Woodbury — a  sweet  singer  too  early  silenced  by  disease 
and  death — left  but  a  few  efforts  at  verse-making.  Geo. 
F.  Root  has  written  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  com- 
poser, and  yet  he  oftener  depends  upon  others  for  words 
to  match  his  melody,  than,  upon  his  own  poetic  impulses. 

14 


2io  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Composers  catch  eagerly  at  such  a  gift  at  song- 
writing  as  Mrs.  Barnes  possessed,  and  appreciate  it  more 
than  people  in  general  possibly  can.  It  may  never  have 
occurred  to  most  readers,  yet  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact, 
that  out  of  the  multitude  of  poems  constantly  appear- 
ing, only  now  and  then  one  is  adapted  to  music.  The 
mass  lack  a  nameless  grace  of  thought  and  expression 
which  would  make  them  melody's  congenial  companion  ; 
or,  possessing  that,  in  some  degree,  want  the  applica- 
tion, the  point,  which  is  essential  to  the  popular  song. 
Very  few,  indeed,  are  the  verse-makers  whom  a  composer 
can  safely  commission  to  furnish  text — who  have  a  prac- 
tical idea  of  what  is  requisite  in  a  hymn  or  a  song.  Yet 
a  large  proportion  of  the  Sabbath-school  hymns  and 
songs  are  written  on  commission,  and  it  follows  logically 
that  the  writers  thereof  can  be  numbered  with  your  ten 
digits. 

Sabbath-school  hymnology  is  not  the  embodiment  of 
superlative  poetic  art,  we  admit,  but  it  compares  favor- 
ably with  hymnology  in  general.  The  best  efforts  by 
Mrs.  Barnes,  however,  were  outside  this  particular  line — 
they  filled  niches  in  newspapers,  and  made  friends 
through  their  own  singing  alone.  One  of  this  class — 
and  the  very  poorest,  except  in  its  philosophy — is  the 
following,  which  originally  appeared  in  the  Rural  New- 
Yorker,  perhaps  six  years  ago,  and  which  now-a-days 
smiles  out  at  us  from  every  .other  paper  we  pick  up  : 


KATE  B.    W.  BARNES.  2il 

SMILE  WHEN'ER  YOU  CAN. 

When  things  do  n't  go  to  suit  you, 

And  the  world  seems  upside  down, 
Do  n't  waste  your  time  in  fretting, 

But  drive  away  that  frown  ; 
Since  life  is  oft  perplexing, 

'T  is  much  the  wisest  plan, 
To  bear  all  trials  bravely, 

And  smile  when  'er  you  can. 

Why  should  you  dread  to-morrow, 

And  thus  despoil  to-day  ? 
For  when  you  borrow  trouble, 

You  always  have  to  pay. 
It  is  a  good  old  maxim, 

Which  should  be  often  preached  <, 
Do  n't  cross  the  bridge  before  you, 

Until  the  bridge  is  reached. 

You  might  be  spared  much  sighing, 

If  you  would  keep  in  mind 
The  thought  that  good  and  evil 

Are  always  here  combined  ; 
There  must  be  something  wanting, 

And  though  you  roll  in  wealth, 
You  may  miss  from  your  casket 

That  precious  jewel — health. 

And  though  you,  re  strong  and  sturdy, 

You  may  have  an  empty  purse  ; 
(And  earth  has  many  trials, 

Which  I  consider  worse  ! ) 
But  whether  joy  or'  sorrow 

Fill  up  your  mortal  span, 


212  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

'T  will  make  your  pathway  brighter 
To  smile  when  'er  you  can. 

We  commend  this  philosophy  to  all  terribly  sober 
individuals,  and  feel  like  thanking  our  editorial  brethren 
for  giving  it  such  .wide-spread  endorsement.  In  this 
instance,  Mrs.  Barnes  preached,  poetically,  no  more 
than  she  practiced  in  the  every-day  prose  of  life.  Sorrow 
came  to  her,  as  it  comes  to  all,  but  in  the  midst  of  all  her 
sorrowings  and  perplexities,  this  same  sunny  philosophy 
held  its  place  in  her  heart.  She  bore  trials  bravely,  her 
strong,  sweet  faith  in  God  upholding  her  even  in  the 
darkest  hour.  To  those  at  all  familiar  with  Kate 
Cameron's  writings,  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  say  that 
hers  was  the  Christian's  faith — a  faith  that  can  wait  God's 
time  in  patience.  It  is  clearly  shown  in  this  little  poem, 
which  first  appeared  in  the  Advocate  and  Guardian: 

PA  TIE  NT  WAITING . 

'T  was  the  gain  of  patient  waiting 

That  was  wafted  to  my  ears, 
In  a  song  sublime  and  distant 

As  the  music  of  the  spheres; 
And  I  saw — as  in  a  vision — 

All  that  vast  n.nd  solemn  throng 
Linked  by  common  loss  and  sorrow 

And  by  suffering  made  strong  ! 

Lips  that  speak  not  of  their  anguish, 
But  still  smile  serene  and  calm  ; 
Hands  that  when  they  drop  the  burden, 


KATE  B.    W.BARNES.  2ij 

Henceforth  grasp  a  martyr's  palm  ; 
Feet  that  shrink  not  from  the  pathw&y 

Though  so  thorny  to  their  tread  ; 
Hearts  that  bravely  meet  the  conflict 

Though  their  earthly  hopes  have  fled. 

And  o'er  all  the  anthem  floated — 

"  Patient  waiting  is  no  loss  !" 
And  it  seemed  to  cast  a  halo 

O'er  each  dark  and  heavy  cross  ; 
And  methought  there  came  an  answer 

To  each  question  that  perplexed  : 
"  Ye  shall  know  it  all  hereafter, 

Not  in  this  world — but  the  next. " 

Then  I  traced  the  mystic  letters 

Carved  upon  life's  iron  gate, 
At  whose  stern  command  we  murmur 

When  we  find  there  written,    Wait ! 
'T  is  alone  the  patient  waiters 

Who  the  blessing  will  receive  : 
Thev  who  through  all  doubt  and  trial, 

Calmly,  trustingly,  believe  ! 

Among  the  most  earnest  of  Mrs.  Barnes'  purely  re- 
ligious pieces  is  this,  which  was  written  for  the  Advocate 
and  Guardian,  and  has  been  copied  anonymously  by 
several  leading  journals: 

THE  UNPROFITABLE  SERVANT. 

In  a  napkin  smooth  and  white, 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  sight, 
My  one  talent  lies  to-night. 


WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Mine  to  hoard,  or  mine  to  use, 
Mine  to  keep,  or  mine  to  lose, 
May  I  not  do  what  I  choose  ? 

Ah  !  the  gift  was  only  lent, 
With  the  Giver's  known  intent 
That  it  should  be  wisely  spent. 

And  I  know  He  will  demand 
Every  farthing  at  my  hand, 
When  I  in  His  presence  stand. 

What  will  be  my  grief  and  shame 
When  I  hear  my  humble  name, 
And  can  not  repay  His  claim  ! 

One  poor  talent — nothing  more  ! 
All  the  years  that  have  gone  o'er 
*   Have  not  added  to  the  store. 

Some  will  double  what  they  hold, 

Others  add  to  it  ten-fold 

And  pay  back  the  shining  gold. 

Would  that  I  had  toiled  like  them  ! 
All  my  sloth  I  now  condemn  : 
Guilty  fears  my  soul  o'erwhelm. 

Lord,  O  teach  me  what  to  do, 
Make  me  faithful,  make  me  true, 
And  the  sacred  trust  renew  ! 

Help  me,  ere  too  late  it  be, 
Something  yet  to  do  for  Thee, 
Thou  who  hast  done  all  for  me  ! 


Down  the  dim  vista  of  the  vanished  years 

I  gaze,  sad-hearted, 
And  see  through  gath'ring  mists  of  blinding  tears 

Loved  ones  departed." 


Page  215. 


KATE  B.    W.  BARNES.  215 

The  Congregationalism  has  given  place  to  many  tender 
things,  but  to  few  more  tender  than  the  following,  which 
affords  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Barnes'  inner  life.  Every  be- 
reaved mother  will  read  it  with  sympathetic  interest  when 
informed  that  the  allusion  in  the  fifth  stanza  is  to  four 
little  ones  who  .went  from  the  poet's  arms  to  angelic  keep- 
ing : 

7 HE  DEPARTED. 

Down  the  dim  vista  of  the  vanished  years 

I  gaze  sad-hearted, 
And  see  through  gath'ring  mists  of  blinding  tears, 

Loved  ones  departed. 

Brows  on  which  mem'ry's  radiance  is  cast 

In  fadeless  splendor, 
And  voices  that  still  whisper  of  the  past 

In  accents  tender 

Hands  that  have  lain  confidingly  in  mine, 

As  loth  to  sever  ; 
Eyes  that  upon  my  darkened  pathway  shine 

No  more,  forever  ; 

Hearts  on  which  mine  was  ever  wont  to  lean 

With  trust  unshaken, 
While  not  a  single  cloud  could  float  between, 

Doubt  to  awaken. 

And  dearer  than  all  others  to  my  sight, 

Sweet  childish  graces  ; 
How  dark  the  world  grew  when  death's  solemn  night 

Hid  those  fair  faces  ! 


2i6  WAIFS  AND    THEIR  AUTHORS. 

I  sometimes  wonder  I  can  ever  smile 

Or  speak  with  gladness  ; 
But  God  is  good,  and  present  joys  beguile 

The  past  of  sadness, 

And  the  fair  future  stretches  far  away 

From  our  weak  vision, 
And  thinking  of  its  sunny  days,  I  stray 

In  fields  Elysian. 

Yet  earthly  futures  are  but  dark  and  dim 

Beside  that  Heaven 
To  which  God  hath,  to  all  that  follow  Him, 

Free  entrance  given. 

And  there  I  know  my  loved  ones  are  at  rest, 

'Mid  beauty  vernal, 
And  ne'er  can  sorrow,  care,  or  sin  molest 

Their  peace  eternal. 

And  I  will  wipe  away  my  selfish  tears  : 

Death  cannot  sever 

The  ties  that  bind  our  souls  through  mortal  years — 
They  last  forever ! 

In  catching  "the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead," 
Kate  Cameron  was  always  fortunate.  She  dwelt  linger- 
ingly  upon  the  by-gones.  H>r  past  never  ceased  to  be  a 
part  of  her  present  ;  she  recalled  its  pleasures,  possibly 
even  its  pains,  with  a  kind  of  loving  regret  swhich  never 
altogether  faded  out,  but  which  she  held  to  tenderly 
through  the  years  ;  and  this  is  how  she  came  to  make  a 
little  medley  of  memory,  about 


KATE  B.    W.  BARNES.  217 

OLD  FASHIONED  SONQS . 

Her  fingers  swept  across  the   keys, 

And  swift  as  birds  they  flew  ; 
The  music  floated  on  the  breeze, 

Our  heart  went  with  it,  too. 

We  heard  again  the  simple  lays, 

Each  sweet,  familiar  tune 
That  won  our  ardent  love  and  praise 

When  life  was  in  its  June. 

Once  more  we  saw  on  flower  and  tree, 

The  morning  sunlight  shine  ; 
Our  hearts  were  joyous,  blithe  and  free, 

In  days  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne. " 

And  while  we  shed  a  silent  tear 

For  happy  hours  gone  by, 
We  met  a  friend,  so  true  and  dear, 

Still  "  Coming  thro'  the  Rye. " 

That  vanished  dream  was  in  our  thought, 

We  breathed  a  once  loved  name , 
When  with  a  tender  sadness  fraught 
"  Last  Rose  of  Summer  '  came. 

And  then  we  found  the  refuge  blest 

Of  hearts  that  widely  roam, 
And  owned  the  dearest  and  the  best 

Of  all,  was  "  Home,  Sweet  Home !" 

But  if  wont  to  live  over  again  those  happy  seasons 
fled,  Mrs.  Barnes  did  not  repine.  She  used  each  present 
day  earnestly,  hopefully,  and  looked  cheerfully  forward  to 


2 1 8  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

THE  TIME  TO  COME . 

This  is  earth's  weary  waiting  time, 

The  world  is  full  of  sorrow ; 
But  soon  within  a  cloudless  clime 

Will  dawn  a  brighter  morrow  ; 
For  that  we  watch,  for  that  we  wait, 

It  is  the  same  old  story : 
And  some  time  through  the  Future's  gate 

Will  come  the  promised  glory. 

Not  ours,  perchance,  the  bliss  of  those 

Who  greet  its  full  appearing, 
Yet  still  triumphant  o'er  our  foes 

We  know  that  it  is  nearing  ; 
When  truth  and  right  shall  grandly  rise 

And  yield  to  no  oppressing  ; 
And  on  all  hearts  the  open  skies 

Shall  shower  their  richest  blessing. 

But  while  we  look  with  eager  trust 

For  every  welcome  token, 
It  may  not  come  till  "Dust  to  dust" 

Has  o'er  our  graves  been  spoken. 
We  helped  the  precious  seed  to  sow, 

We  bore  it  forth  with  weeping  ; 
Not  ours  the  harvest  joy  to  know, 

Not  ours  the  golden  reaping. 

Thank  God  that  One  the  end  can  see, 
E'en  from  each  small  beginning  ; 

Nor  counts  the  life  in  vain  to  be 
That  boasts  no  outward  winning. 

Without  a  thought  of  human  praise 


KA  TE  B.    W.  BARNES.  2 1 9 

We  '11  bravely  bear  each  burden 
Until  beyond  these  mortal  days 

We  clasp  the  longed-for  guerdon  ' 

Mrs.  Barnes'  faith  and  trust  did  not  fail  her,  even  to 
the  end.  In  the  last  year  of  her  life,  when  the  sorrow  of 
a  loving  father's  loss  was  vet  fresh  upon  her,  she  wrote : 

IN  TIME  OF  TRIAL. 

Thou  who  knowest  all  our  grief, 

Help  us  bear  Thy  holy  will ; 
If  Thou  canst  not  give  relief, 

Make  us  calm,  serene  and  still. 
O  our  Father  and  our  God, 

Bend  our  stubborn  wills  to  Thine; 
Let  the  thorny  path  be  trod 

Leaning  on  an  Arm  Divine  ! 

All  our  dearest,  fondest  ties 

Are  but  tokens  of  Tny  love  ; 
Draw  us  by  them  to  the  skies, 

Help  us  raise  our  thoughts  above. 
Though  earth's  brightest  links  should  break 

Thou  unchanged  wouldst  yet  remain 
Sorrows  borne  for  Thy  dear  sake, 

Stronger  make  love's  perfect  chain. 

Death  alone  can  ne'er  divide 

Those  whose  hearts  are  true  and  fond 

In  Thy  love  we  still  abide, 

We  below — and  they  beyona  : 

Though  the  form  we  can  not  see, 

Though  the  voice  we  can  not  hear — 


220  WAIFS  AND   THEIT  AUTHORS. 

They  still  live  by  Faith  in  Thee, 
And  they  are  forever  near ! 

Soon  these  severed  lives  will  meet, 

Soon  these  broken  ties  unite  ; 
O  that  hour  of  rapture  sweet, 

In  the  land  of  love  and  light  ! 
Can  we  not  with  patience  wait 

Through  these  fleeting  mortal  years  . 
Dear  the  joy  that  cometh  late  ! 

Pure  the  bliss  that  follows  tears  ! 


JOHN  H.  YATES. 

]HE  plain,  homely  ballad  has  always  been  popular. 
Of  late,  the  most  popular  newspaper  poetry  has 
taken  form  in  the  ballads  of  old  people — that 
verse  being  oftenest  copied  which,  in  the  assumed  character 
of  an  old  man  or  woman,  most  tenderly  and  pathetically 
recited  the  wrongs,  the  observations,  or  the  reflections  of 
age.  Within  two  or  three  years  past  the  name  of  John 
H.  Yates  has  appeared  in  connection  with  such  ballads 
oftener  than  any  other,  and  the  popularity  his  productions 
have  enjoyed  fairly  entitles  him  to  a  place  in  this  series  of 
sketches. 

The  first  to  win  wide  recognition  among  Mr.   Yates' 
ballads,  if  we  remember  rightly,  was 

THE  OLD  MAN  IN  THE  NEW  CHURCH. 

They  've  left  the  old  church,  Nancy,  and  gone  into  a  new ; 
There  's  paintings  on  the  windows,  and  cushions  in  each  pew  ; 
I  looked  up  at  the  shepherd,  then  around  upon  the  sheep, 
And  thought  what  great  inducements  for  the  drowsy  ones  to 
sleep. 

Yes  !  when  I  saw  the  cushions,  and  the  flowers  fine  and  gay 
In  all  the  sisters'  bonnets,  I  could  n't  help  bui  say 
"  Must  I  be  carried  to  the  skies  on  flowery  beds  of  ease, 
While  others  fought  to  win  the  prize,  and  sailed  through  bloody 
seas  ?  " 


222  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

The  preacher  read  the  good   old  hymn  sung  in  our  youthful 

days — 
"  Oh,    for    a   thousand   tongues    to    sing   my   great   Redeemer's 

praise  ! " 
And,  though  a  thousand  tongues  were  there,  they  did  n't  catch 

the  fire, 
And  so  the  good  old  hymn  was  sung  by  a  new-fangled  choir. 

I  doubt  not  but  th%jpeople  called  the  music  very  fine, 

But  if  they  heard  a  word  they  said  they  've  better   ears  than 

mine  ;  . 

For  the  new  tune  in  the  new  church  was  a  very  twisting  thing. 
And  not  much  like  the   tunes  of  old  that  Christians  used  to 

sing. 

Why,  Nancy,  in  the  good  old  times,  the  singing  sounded  more 
Like  the  noise  of  many  waters  as  they  beat  upon  the  shore  ; 
For  everybody  knew  the  tunes,  and  everybody  sang, 
And    the  churches,   though  not  quite  so  fine,  with  hallelujahs 
rang. 

Now  I  'm  not  an  old  fogy,  but  I  sometimes  want  to  scold, 
When   I  see  our  people  leave  good  ways  simply  because  they  're 

old. 
I  've  served  the  Lord  nigh  forty  years,  and  till  I  'm  neath  the 

sod 
I  shall  always  love  the  simple,  good  old  ways  of  serving  God. 

"  The  Lord's  ear  is  not  heavy.  "     He  can  hear  a  sinner's  cry 
In  a  church  that  is  not  painted  like  a  rainbow  in  the  sky  ; 

"  The  Lord  s  arm  is  not  shortened."     He  will  save  a  sinner  now, 
Though  he  may  in  lonely  hovel,  on  a  cold  earth-altar  bow. 

But  they  've  left  the  old  church,  Nancy,  and  gone  into  a  new, 
And  I  fear  they  've  gone  in  more  for  style  than  for  the  good 
and  true — 


JOHN.  H.    YATES.  223 

And  from  what  little  I  heard  said,  I  fear  that  sadder  yet, 
In  beating  other  churches,  they  've  got  badly  into  debt. 

We  did  n't  think  of  lotteries  and  grab-bags,  years  ago, 
As  a  means  of  raising  money  to  make  a  better  show  ! 
When  the  church  demanded  dollars  we  all  with  one  accord, 
Put  our  hands  down  in  our  pockets  and  gave  them  to  the  Lord. 

While  I  sat  there  at  the  meetin  ,  looking  'round  from  pew  to 
pew, 

I  saw  no  familiar  faces  for  the  faces  all  were  new  ; 

When  the  services  were  ended,  all  the  members  passed  me  by, 

None  were  there  to  greet  the  old  man  with  gray  hairs  and  fail- 
ing eye. 

Then  I  knew  that  God  had  taken  to  tne  temple  in  the  skies 
All  the  soldiers  that  with  you  and   I  fought  hard   to    win   the 

prize  ; 
I  some  doubt  if  Christians  now-a-days  will  reach  the  gates  of 

gold 
Any  better  in  the  new  ways  than  others  did  in  the  old. 

For  the  Lord  looks  not  on  tinsel,  His  spirit  will  depart 

When  the  love  of   earthly  grandeur   takes    possession    of  the 

heart  ; 

Oh  !  I  know  the  Lord  of  glory  will  pass  through  a  hovel  door 
Sooner  than  through  temple  portals  where  are  no  seats  for  the 
poor. 

ITI  a  little  while,  dear  Nancy,  we  will  lay  our  armor  down, 
And  from  the  King  Eternal  we  '11  receive  our  starry  crown  ; 
Then  we  '11  meet  the  blessed  pilgrims  that  we  worshiped  with 

of  old, 
And  we  '11  worship  there,  together,  in  the  city  built  of  gold. 


224 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


This,  originally  published  in  the  Rochester  Demo- 
crat and  Chronicle,  was  generally  copied  by  the  press,  but 
usually  without  credit,  and  of  the  many  who  have  read 
it,  few  know  even  the  author's  name.  It  was  followed  by 
another  depicting  the  New  Church,  and  the  worship  in 
it,  in  detail,  and  entitled 

•  THE  OLD  MAN  IN  THE  STYLISH  CHURCH . 

Well,  wife,  I  've  been  to  church  to-day — been  to  a  stylish  one — 
And  seein'  you   can't  go  from  home,   I  '11  tell  you  what  was 

done. 

You  would  have  been  surprised  to  see  what  I  saw  there  to-day  ! 
The  sisters  were  fixed  up  so  fine  they  hardly  bowed  to  pray. 

I  had  on  these  coarse  clothes  of  mine — not  much  the  worse  for 

wear — 

But  then  they  knew  I  was  n't  one  they  call  a  millionaire  ; 
So  they  led  the  old  man  to  a  seat  away  back  by  the  door  ; 
'T  was  bookless  and  uncushioned — a  reserved  seat  for  the  poor. 

Pretty   soon   in    came  a  stranger  with  gold  ring  and  clothing 

fine  : 

They  led  him  to  a  cushioned  seat  far  in  advance  of  mine. 
I  doubted  whether  it  was  right  to  seat  him  up  so  near, 
When  he  was  young,  and  I  was  old,  and  very  hard  to  hear. 

But  then,  there  's  no  accountin'  lor  what  some  people  do  ; 
The  finest  clothing  now-a-days  oft  gets  the  finest  pew. 
But  when  we  reach  that  blessed  home,  all  undefiled  by  sin, 
We  '11  see  wealth  beggin'  at  the  gate,  while  poverty  goes  in. 

I  could  n't  hear  the  sermon,  I  sat  so  far  away, 
So    through    the   hours   of  service,    I    could    only  "  watch  and 
pray  ; " 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  225 

Watch   the    doin's   of   the    Christians  settin'    near   me    'round 

about ; 
Pray  that  God  would  make  them 'pure  within  as  they  were  pure 

without. 

While  I  set  there,  lookin'  all  around  upon  the  rich  and  great  ; 
I  kept  thinkiti'  'bout  that  rich  man  and  the  beggar  at  his  gate  : 
How,   by  all  but'  dogs  forsaken,   the  poor  beggar's  form  grew 

cold, 
And  the  angels  bore  his  spirit  to  the  mansions  built  of  gold. 

How  at  last  the  rich  man  perished,  and  his  spirit  took  its  flight 
From  the  purple  and  fine  linen  to  the  home  of  endless  night  ; 
There  he  learned  as  he  stood  gazin'  at  the  beggar  in  the  sky, 
"  It  is  n't  all  of  life  to  live,  nor  all  of  death  to  die." 

I  doubt  not  there  were  wealthy  sires  in  that  religious  fold 
Who  went  up  from  their  dwellings  like  the  Pharisee  of  old  ; 
Then  returned  home  from  worship  with  a  head  uplifted  high, 
To  spurn  the  hungry  from  their  door  with  naught  to  satisfy. 

Out,  out,  with  such  professions  !  they  are  doin'  more  to-day 
To  stop  the  weary  sinner  from  the  gospel's  shinin'  way 
Than  all  the  books  of  infidels  ;  than  all  that  has  been  tried 
Since  Christ  was  born  in  Bethlehem — since  Christ  was  crucified. 

How  simple  are  the  works  of  God,  and  yet  how  very  grand  ; 

The  shells  in  ocean  caverns,  the  flowers  on  the  land ; 

He  gilds  the   clouds  of  evenin'  with  the  gold-light  from  His 

throne — 
Not  for  the  rich  man  only,  not  for  the  poor  alone. 

Then  why  should  man  look  down  on  man  because  of  lack  of 

gold? 

Why  seat  him  in  the  poorest  pew  because  his  clothes  are  old  ? 
A  heart  with  noble  motives,  a  heart  that  God  has  blest, 
May  be  beatin'  Heaven's  music  'neath  that  faded  coat  and  vest. 
'   15 


226  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

I  'm  old — I  may  be  childish — but  I  love  simplicity  ; 
I  love  to  see  it  shinin'  in  a  Christian's  piety. 
Jesus  told  us  in  His  sermons,  in  Judea's  mountains  wild, 
He  that  wants  to  go  to  Heaven  must  be  like  a  little  child. 

Our  heads  are  growin'   gray,  dear  wife — our  hearts  are  beatin* 

slow, 

In  a  little  while  the  Master  will  call  for  us  to  go  ; 
When  we  reach  the  pearly  gateway,  and  look  in  with  joyful 

eyes, 
We  '11  see  no  stylish  worship  in  the  temple  of  the  skies. 

Another  followed,  which  admirably  portrays  what 
the  place  and  soirit  of  worship  ought  to  be,  and  which 
has  also  become  a  waif  : 

THE  OLD  MAN  IN  THE  MODEL  CHURCH 

Well,  wife,  I  've  found  the  model  church  !    I  worshiped  there 

to-day  ! 

It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times  before  my  hair  was  gray. 
The  meetin'  house  was  fixed  up  more  than  they  were  years  ago. 
But  then  I  felt  when  I  went  in  it  was  n't  built  for  show. 

The  sexton  did  n't  seat  me  away  back  by  the  door ; 
He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf,  as  well  as  old  and  poor  ; 
He  must  have  been  a  Christian,  for  you  see  he  led  me  through 
The  long  aisle  of  that  crowded  church  to  find  a  place  and  pew. 

I  wish  you  'd  heard  that  singin'  ;  it  had  the  old-time  ring  ; 
The   preacher   said,   with  trumpet  voice,  "  Let   all  the  people 

sing  !  " 

The  tune  was  Coronation,  and  the  music  upward  rolled, 
Till  I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  striking  all  their  harps  of 

gold. 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  227 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away  ;  my  spirit  caught  the  fire  ; 
I  joined  my  feeble,   trembling  voice  with  that  melodious  choir, 
And  sang,  as  in  my  youthful  days,    "  Let  angels  prostrate  fall  ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem,  and  crown  Him  Lord  of  all." 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  'did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once  more  ; 
I  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a  glimpse  of  shore  ; 
I  almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  weather-beaten  form, 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port  forever  from  the  storm. 

The  preachin'  ?     Well,  I  can't  just  tell  all  that  the  preacher 

said  ; 

I  know  it  was  n't  written  ;  I  know  it  was  n't  read. 
He  had  n't  time  to  read  it,  for  the  lightning  of  his  eye 
Went  flashing  'long  from  pew  to  pew,  nor  passed  a  sinner  by. 

The  sermon  wasn't  flowery,  't  was  simple  gospel  truth  ; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me  ;  it  fitted  hopeful  youth. 
'T  was  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed  ; 
'T  was  fullof  invitations  to  Christ,  and  not  to  creed. 

The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in  Jews  ; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  in  the  finest  pews, 
And — though  I  can't  see  very  well — I  saw  that  falling  tear 
That  told  me  Hell  was  some  ways  off,  and  Heaven  very  near. 

How  swift  those  golden  moments  fled  within  that  holy  place  ! 
How  brightly  beamed  the  light  of  Heaven  from  every   happy 

face  ! 
Again  I  long  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall  meet  with 

friend, 
Where    congregations  ne'er  break  up,   and   Sabbaths  have  no 

end.  " 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister-'-that  congregation,  too — 
In  that  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine  from  heaven's 
blue. 


228  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

1  doubt  not  I  '11  remember,  beyond  life's  evening  gray, 
The  happy  hour  of  worship  in  the  model  church  to-day. 

Dear  wife,   the  fight  will  soon  be  fought — the  victory  soon  be 

won  ; 

The  shinin'  goal  is  just  ahead  ;  the  race  is  nearly  run. 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearin'  they  are  throngin'  to  the  shore 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no  more. 

John  Henry  Yates  lives  in  the  village  of  Batavia,  N. 
Y.,  where  he  was  born  Nov.  2ist,  1837.  His  parentSi 
came  from  England,  and  he  has  the  simplicity  of  manner 
which  so  characterizes  the  English  common  people.  His 
mother  was  a  school-mistress,  and  from  her  he  inherited 
his  literary  taste.  It  was  largely  owing  to  her  urgent 
desire  that  he  began  composition,  and  has  since  cultured 
his  talent  in  that  direction  so  far  as  he  has.  His  educa- 
tion was  not  liberal,  and  much  of  his  time  since  early 
boyhood  has  been  passed  in  a  store  as  clerk,  yet  he  is  well 
informed  on  general  subjects,  is  con/ersant  with  good 
literature,  and  does  very  acceptable  pulpit  service  as  a 
licensed  preacher  of  the  Methodist  denomination, 
having  a  gift  of  sermonizing  which  answers  instead  of 
special  culture. 

The  world  narrowly  missed  losing  him  as  a  ballad 
writer,  in  the  claims  of  the  church,  for  we  doubt  if  as  an 
"  itinerant '  he  would  have  essayed  such  effort  as  he  has 
successfully  put  forth.  A  narrower  miss  though,  was  when 
he  nearly  lost  his  life,  on  two  different  occasions,  while 
yet  quite  a  youth — once  by  falling  down  a  cellar,  during 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  229 

a  fire  in  Batavia,  and  again  by  falling  on  a  bowie  knife, 
while  taking  part  in  some  amateur  dramatics.  In  the 
first  instance  he  struck  his  forehead  upon  a  stone,  and 
\vas  many  hours  insensible  from  the  blow,  which  left  a 
broad  scar  ;  the  second  accident  was  much  more  perilous, 
even,  since  the  long,  sharp  knife-blade  went  clean  through 
his  right  lung,  and  for  weeks  thereafter  life  hung  as  by  a 
thread. 

The  dominant  feeling  in  Mr.  Yates'  heart  seems  to 
be  that  of  love  and  veneration  for  the  aged.  His  "  Old 
Man  Ballads,  "as  he  terms  them,  are  quite  numerous, 
and  all  are  prompted  by  it.  Perhaps  his  sympathy  shines 
out  as  strongly  as  any  where  in  the  following,  which  origi- 
nally appeared  in  The  Rochtster  Sunday  Morning  Times  : 

COIN'   WEST  TO  DIE  . 

Well,  here  we  are,  my  dear  old  wife,  on  board  the  train  at  last  ! 
Our  little  all  packed  in  a  trunk,  with  lock  and  straps  made  fast. 
I  hear  the  bell  a-ringin',  and  the  whistle's  piercin'  cry  ; 
There,  wife,  we  're  movin'   out  of  town  ! — we  're  goin'  West  to 
die! 

We  've  been  from  Jane's  to  John's  house,  from  John's  house 
back  to  Jane, 

Till,  now,  they  've  laid  their  burdens  down  on  board  this  Wes- 
tern train  ; 

'T  is  rather  hard  to  send  us  off,  all  crippled  up  and  gray, 

To  find  a  place  in  which  to  die,  two  thousand  miles  away. 

Since  we  broke  up  a  keepin'  house,  they  've' carted  us  around, 
Till,  now,  it  seems,  a  home  for  us  on  earth  can  not  be  found  ; 


230  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

As  sure  as  this  old  face  of  mine  can  ne'er  look  young  again, 
So  sure  we  '11  never  more  return  to  trouble  John  or  Jane. 

They  send  us  to  a  stranger  land,  o'er  an  untraveled  road, 
That  Mary,  in  her  Western  home,  may  bear  the  heavy  load  ; 
It  is  n't  to  be  wondered  at  that  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
Or  that  my  form  is  bendin'  with  more  than  weight  of  years. 

I    did   n't    think    't  would    come    to    this — I    did  n't    mean    it 

should — 

No  home  is  like  your  own  home,  tho'  made  of  logs  of  wood. 
No  bread  is  sweet  when  eating  it  'mid  bitterness  and  strife  ; 
Few  care  to  fill  with  peace  and  joy  an  old  man's  closing  life. 

Now,  o'er  a  long,  untraveled  road  we  seek  a  stranger  land — 
The  old  home  circle  broken  up  at  cruel  time's  command  ; 
But  time  can  not  destroy  our  love,  't  is  stronger  now  than  when 
Our  heads  wore  not  the  silver  locks  of   threescore  years  and 
ten. 

Since  we  broke  up  a  keepin'  house  we  've  led  a  wretched  life  ; 
Jane  puts  the  blame  upon  her  man,  and  John  upon  his  wne  ; 
They  think  not  of  their  infancy — of  all  those  tender  years 
When  we  toiled  day  and  night  for  them,  and  wiped  their  flowin' 
tears. 

We  leave  behind  us  all  the  scenes  of  early  years,  dear  wife  ; 
And  all  the  friends  with  whom  we  've  won  the     ictories  of  life 
We  leave  behind  the  little  church,  where  oft  we  Ve  knelt  in 

prayer, 
But,  good  wife,  we  will  never  leave  the  God  that  met  us  there. 

Although  these  eyes  are  growin'  dim,  I  still  can  see  to  read 
The  precious  truths  in  God's  own  Word,  that  children  all  should 
heed  : 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  23! 

'Honor  thy  father,  "  saith  the  Lord, — "  thy  mother  honor  too: 
Then  shalt  thou  live  long  in   the  land  that   God  hath  given 

you.  *' 

Our  latest  day  will  dawn  ere  long — our  journey's  end  is  nigh — 
We  're  goin'  West  to  Marv's  home,  we  're  goin'  West  to  die  ; 
Then   He   who  sees  the  sparrow  fall,  who  counts  the  oceans 

sands, 
Will  take  us  to  the  better  home — the  house    not   built  with 

hands. 

It  will  interest  readers  to  know  that  among  those 
who  perused  the  above,  on  the  day  it  came  out,  were  a 
family  in  this  city,  one  of  whose  number,  an  aged  lady, 
was  about  to  remove  to  take  up  a  home  with  other  rela- 
tives in  the  West.  The  preparations  were  all  made,  and 
she  was  to  start  next  day  ;  but  on  reading  the  poem  the 
entire  family  were  so  affected  by  it  that  the  journey  was 
at  once  given  up,  and  the  old  lady  will  remain  and  die  in 
Rochester. 

One  of  the  "Old  Man's  Ballads"  is  entitled  "To 
the  Grave  through  the  Poor-House  Gate,  "  and  the  Old 
Man  speaks  thus  forcibly  of  the  pauper's  unfeeling  son  : 

This  heartless  boy  of  his  hadn't  even  a  garret-room 
To  offer  to  the  poor  old  folks  'till  earth  should  offer  the  tomb  ; 
Not  a  crust  of  bread  gave  he  from  his  acres  of  bursting  sod  ; 
If  there  is  a't  a  hell  for  such  a  man,  why,   then  there  is  n't  a 
God. 

When  the  sowers  go  forth  to  sow,  this  miser  sows  iiia  grain, 
And  the  windows  of  heaven   open  to  give   the  refreshing  rain  ; 


232 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 


When  the  reapers  go  forth  to  reap,  his  heavy  wheat  bows  down, 
And  his  poor  old  father  bowed  to  the  charity  of  the  town. 

The  mercy  of  God  is  great  ;  the  justice  of  God  is  sure : 
Man  may,  but  He  will  never,  forsake  the  feeble  and  poor. 
Whatsoever  we  sow  we  reap.     If  we  make  others  harvest  tears, 
We  may  look  for  a  weeping  time  when  we  bow  with  the  burden 
of  years. 

Mr.  Yates  wrote  first  for  the  Batavia  papers — mainly 
for  The  Batavian,  upon  which  he  for  a  year  or  more  ren- 
dered editorial  assistance.  Since  then  he  has  contrib- 
uted often  to  Rochester  journals,  and  has  been  honored 
with  place  and  illustration  in  Harper  s  Weekly  and  Har- 
per's Bazar.  A  political  ballad  which  appeared  in  the 
former — "The  Old  Mangoes  for  Grant;" — was  copied 
by  all  the  Republican  papers,  as  was  a  companion  "The 
Boys  in  Blue  go  for  Grant;" and  "The  Old  Man  in  the 
Palace  Car, "  which  appeared  in  the  Bazar,  has  been 
widely  printed  throughout  the  West.  Several  later  bal- 
lads, in  spirit  similar  to  the  last  named,  have  been  exten- 
sively reproduced. 

Mr.  Yates  is  not  less  effective  when  he  assumes  the 
woman's  place,  in  age,  than  when  he  holds  to  his  more 
frequent  personification  of  the  Old  Man,  as  witness  the 
lines  entitled 

JOHN  'S  GONE  OFF  TO'DA  Y. 

It  has  come  about  '     I  feared  it  would  !  yes,  John  's  gone  off 

to-day, 
And  left  me  alone  on  a  mortgaged  farm  without  any  means  to 

pay;  — 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  233 

Gone  off  with  the  very  woman  who  has  hated  me  for  years — 
Who  has  planted   my  path  with  thorns,  while  I  watered  them 
with  my  tears. 

Perhaps  't  is  foolish  to  mourn  ;  perhaps  't  is  better  so  ; 

When  love  goes  out  of  the  dwelling  the  loveless  man  should  go. 

But  the  heart  can  't  let  go  quickly  from  the  one  it  has  loved  so 

long, 
Though  suddenly  comes  the  tempest,   though  terrible   be  the 

wrong. 

I  gave  him  my  youthful  love  in  the  far  home  over  the  sea  ; 

Through  all  the  years  of  our  wedded  life  his  heart  had  been 
true  to  me. 

Till  this  woman  came  to  our  table,  with  her  fine  sheep's  cloth- 
ing on, 

To  prove  but  a  wolf,  as  she  has  to-day,  by  running  away  with 
John. 

It  is  hard  to  work,  as  I   have  worked  for  love  and  a  home  when 

old  ; 
Then  find  I  have  garnered  nothing  but  fond  hopes  dead  and 

cold. 
It  is  hard  to  love  as   I  have  loved,  then  hear  the  old  neighbors 

say,   . 
John  would  n't  have  done   this  wrong  but  I  scolded  him  night 

and  day. 

There  is  n't  the  proof  in  Scripture  that  Adam  was  drove  to  sin  ; 
There  is  n't  a  wife  around  here  more  patient  than  I  have  been  : 
A  woman's  tongue  may  drive  a  man  out  of  the  house  for  awhile, 
But  to  lead  him  astray  from  wisdom's  way  there  's  nothing  like 
her  smile. 

'T  was  the  smile  of  this  evil  woman,  't  was  the  honeyed  words 
of  her  tongue, 


234  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

That  shattered  love's  golden  bowl,  and  love's  tuneful  harp  un- 
strung, 

When  the  serpent's  charm  is  broken,  and  John  comes  back  to 
his  mind, 

He  will  sigh  again  for  the  true  love  of  the  heart  he  has  left 
behind. 

Will   I  run   to  the  door  to  meet  him  ?     Will   I  welcome  him 

with  a  kiss  ? 

Supposing  I  do,  neighbor,  will  that  be  doing  amiss  ? 
It  's  dangerous  sailing  without  the  man  who  has   been  at  the 

helm  so  long ! 
And  they  who  are  prone  to  evil  should  learn  to  forgive  a  wrong. 

I  often  take  my  Bible,  the  well-worn  one  on  the  stand, 

And  read  of  that  prodigal  son  coming  home  from  that  famine 
land; 

Did  n't  the  father  run  to  meet  him  ?  Did  n't  he  kiss  his  re- 
penting boy  ?  , 

And  order  the  fatted  calf  killed  to  make  him  a  feast  of  joy  ? 

So  will  I  welcome  John,  when  his  wayward  race  is  run  ; 
Is  not  a  prodigal  husband  as  good  as  a  prodigal  son  ? 
If  I  forgive  his  trespasses,  obeying  the  law  divine, 
The  Lord  who  pities  the  erring  will  surely  pardon  mine. 

It  will  come  about,  it  will  ;  yes,  John  will  come  home  soon  : 
Together  we  '11  mend  love's  broken  bowl,   love's  golden  harp 

we  '11  tune  ; 

Then  the  fatted  calf  I  '11  kill,  and  the  news  I  '11  spread  around, 
My  John,  though  dead,  is  alive  again  ;  though  lost,   he  now  is 

found. 

In  quite  a  different  vein  from  either  ballad  we  have 
given,  but  embodying  memories  common  to  us  all,  and 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  235 

recalling  the  vanished  days  of  youth  in  happy  though 
half  pathetic  way,  is  the  following,  for  which,  of  many 
ballads  Mr.  Yates  has  written,  he  has  the  fondest  regard  : 

IN  THE  OLD  FORSAKEN  SCHOOL- HOUSE . 

They  've  left  the  school-house,  Charley,   where  years  ago  we  sat 
And  shot  our  paper  bullets  at  the  master's  time-worn  hat. 
The  hook  is  gone  on  which  it  hung,  and  master  sleepeth  now 
Where  school-boy  tricks  can  never  cast  a  shadow  o'er  his  brow. 

They  've  built  a  new  imposing  one — the  pride  of  all  the  town, 
And  laughing  lads  and  lasses  go  its  broad  steps  up   and  down. 
A  tower  crowns  its  summit  with  a  new,  a  monster  bell, 
That  youthful  ears,   in  distant  homes,  may  hear  its  music  swell. 

I  'm  sitting  in  the  old  one,  with  its  battered,  hingeless  door  ; 
The  windows  are  all  broken,  and  the  stones  lie  on  the  floor  ; 
I   alone,  of  all  the  merry  boys  who  romped  and  studied  here, 
Remain  to  see  it  battered  up  and  left  so  lone  ana  drear. 

I  'm  sitting  on  the  same  old  bench  where  we  sat  side  by  side 
And   carved    our  names  upon  the   desk,    when   not  by  master 

eyed  ; 

Since  then  a  dozen  boys  have  sought  their  great  skill  to  display, 
And,  like  the  foot-prints   on  the  sand,  our  names  have  passed 

away. 

'T  was  here  we  learned  to  conjugate  "  Amo,  amas,  amat,  " 
While  glances  from  the  lasses  made  our  hearts  go  pit-a-pat  ; 
'T  was  here  we  fell  in  love,  you  know,  with  girls  whoftooked  us 

through — 
Your's  with  her  piercing  eyes  of  black,  and  mine  with  eyes  of 

blue. 


236  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Our  sweethearts — pretty  girls  were  they — to  us  how  very  dear — 
Bow  down  your  head  with  me,  my  boy,   and  shed  for  them  n 

tear  ; 
With  them   the  earthly  school  is  out  ;  each  lovely  maid    now 

stands 
Before  the  one  Great  Master,  in  the  house  not  built  with  hands. 

You  tell  me  you  are  far  out  West ;  a  lawyer,  deep  in  laws, 
With  Joe,  who  sat  behind  us  here,  and   tickled  us  with  straws  ; 
Look  out  for  number  one,  my  boys  ;  may  wealth  come  at  your 

touch  ; 
But  with  your  long,  strong  legal  straws,   don't  tickle  men  too 

much. 

Here,  to  the  right,  sat  Jimmy  Jones — you  must  remember  Jim — 
He  's  teaching,  now,  and  pumsning,  as  master  punished  him  ; 
What  an  unlucky  lad  he  was  !     His  sky  was  dark  with  woes  ; 
Whoever  did  the  sinning  it  was  Jim  who  got  the  blows. 

Those  days  are  all  gone  by,  my   boy  ;    life's  hill  we   're  going 

down, 

With  here  and  there  a  silver  hair  amid  the  school-boy  brown  ; 
But  memory  can  never  die,  so  we  '11  talk  o'er  the  joys 
We  shared  together  in  this  house  when  you  and  I  were  boys. 

Though  ruthless  hands  may  tear  it  down — this  old  house  lone 
and  drear — 

They  '11  not  destroy  the  characters  that  started  out  from  here  ; 

Time's  angry  waves  may  sweep  the  shore  and  wash  out  all  be- 
side— 

Bright  as  the  stars  that  shine  above,  they  shall  for  aye  abide. 

I   've  seen  the  new  house,  Charley  ;  't  is   the  pride   of  all  the 

town, 

And  laughing  lads  and  lasses   go  its  broad  steps  up  and  down  ; 
But  neither  you  nor  I,  old  friend,  can  love  it  half  as  well 
As  this  condemned  forsaken  one  with  cracked  and  tongueless  bell. 


JOHN  H.    YATES.  237 

Mr.  Yates  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  style  of 
ballad  we  have  so  largely  shown,  though  he  drops  into  it 
oftenest,  and  most  naturally.  He  can  do  very  satis- 
fying work  in  other  styles,  which  maybe  seen,  as  we  con- 
clude our  sketch,  in 

A  SONG  OF  HOME  . 

"  There  's  no  place  like  home, "  though  'neath  bright  skies  we 

roam, 

In  the  lands  where  rare  blossoms  unfold  ; 
For  the  joys  of  the  hearth  are  the  purest  of  earth, 

And  its  treasures  more  precious  than  gold  ; 
How  the  eyes  beam  with  love  'neath  the  lashes  above, 

When  our  footsteps  are  heard  at  the  door ; 
When  we  enter  its  bliss  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss, 
We  feel  care-worn  and  weary  no  more. 

Shine  on,  hearth  and  home,    o'er   life's   billows    of 

foam, 
Oh  !  beautiful  love-light !  beautiful  home  ! 

The  poor  soldier  in  pain  on  the  field  with  the  slain 

And  the  sailor  afar  on  the  foam, 
Brush  the  tear  from  the  eye  and  look  back  with  a  sigh, 

As  they  think  of  the  pleasures  of  home  ; 
Then  in  dreams  of  the  night  they  again,  with  delight, 

Join  the  circle  they  left  at  the  hearth, 
And  their  hearts  feel  at  rest,  'mid  the  scenes  they  love  best, 

In  the  sunniest  spot  of  the  earth. 

The  sweet  nest  in  the  wood  to  the  lark  seemeth  good, 

While  the  eagle,  with  wings  strong  and  free, 
Builds  her  home  with  the  flags  in  the  towering  crags 


2  38  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

That  o'erhang  the  white  foam  of  the  sea. 
O  !  it  is  not  the  spot,  be  it  palace  or  cot, 

That  makes  home  the  sweet  Eden  of  earth — 
'T  is  the  dear  ones  we  meet  in  its  blissful  retreat, 

And  the  love  that  encircles  the  hearth. 

There  are  those  on  life's  way  who  are  homeless  to-day, 

And  they  sigh  as  they  wearily  roam  ; 
Through  the  fast  falling  tears  they  look  back  to  the  years 

That  were  spent  in  a  beautiful  home. 
While  we  then  are  so  blest  with  this  haven  of  rest, 

Let  the  home  be  made  cheerful  with  love, 
For  our  life  is  a  dream — we  may  soon  cross  the  stream 

To  the  beautiful  mansions  above. 

Shine  on,  hearth  and  home,   o'er  life's   billows    of 

foam, 
Oh  !  beautiful  love-light  !  beautiful  home 


The  poor  soldier  in  pain  on  the  field  with  the  slain, 

And  the  sailor  afar  on  the  foam, 
Brush  the  tear  from  the  eye  and  look  back  with  a  sigh, 

As  they  think  of  the  pleasures  of  home. 


ETHEL  LYNN   BEERS. 

GENERATION  or  two  must  pass  away  before 
the  phrase.  "All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  "  can 
fade  from  popular  remembrance.  K  was  com- 
mon in  news  dispatches  during  the  fall  of  1861,  and  be- 
came familiar  to*  us  all  through  the  public  prints.  In  the 
issue  of  Harper's  Weekly  for  Nov.  30,  of  the  year  named, 
a  poem  appeared  which  began  by  quoting  this  phrase, 
and  which  was  at  once  republished  in  every  journal  in 
the  land.  It  has  not  lost  interest,  even  now.  War  is 
only  a  memory,  but  to  many  it  is  intensely  vivid  ;  and 
there  are  thousands,  in  Southern  homes  as  around  North- 
ern hearthstones,  whose  hearts  will  throb  with  a  quickei 
pulsation  as  they  read  anew 

THE  PICKE T- GUARD. 

"All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  "  they  say, 
"  Except,  now  and  then,  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing — a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle  ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle.  " 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 


24o  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS, 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-day, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  Areaming  ; 
Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fire,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sign,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping  ; 
While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim. 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep — 

For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her  ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  on 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night  wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle — "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-by  !" 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 


E THEL  L  YNN  B EERS.  24  I 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead — 

The  picket  's  off  duty  forever  ! 

As  originally  published,  its  only  hint  of  authorship 
was  hid  in  the  initials  ' '  E.  B.  "  These  lost  sight  of,  as 
they  speedily  were,  the  poem  became  a  waif,  with  no 
hint  of  authorship  at  all.  By-and-by  some  journal  fixed 
paternity  upon  it,  to  which  it  had  no  claim ;  then  it  was 
claimed  by  those  who  could  not  prove  their  paternity. 
The  London  Times  credited  it  to  "a  Confederate  soldier 
who  died  on  the  Potomac ; "  and  was  corrected  by  an 
American  paper,  which  declared  that  the  verses  "  were 
composed  by  a  private  soldier  in  the  United  States  service, 
sent  home  in  a  letter  to  his  wife,  and  first  published  in  a 
Northern  journal.  "  This  statement  was  in  turn  met  by 
another/ asserting  that  they  "were  the  production  of  the 
lamentable  Fitz  James  O'Brien,  who  was  wounded  at 
Ball's  Bluff  and  died  after  his  arm  had  been  amputated.  " 
Finally,  under  date  of  July  4th,  1863,  Harper  s  Weekly  al- 
luded to  the  vexed  question,  and  settled  it  by  saying  : — 
"The  poem  was  originally  contributed  to  Harper's 
Weekly  by  a  lady,  and  is  copyrighted. "  Recognition  of 
Lieut.  O'Brien' s  real  contributions  to  that  journal  was 
made  in  the  same  paragraph,  linked  with  the  remark  that 
the  soldier-poet  received  his  death-wound  near  Hancock, 
instead  of  at  Ball's  Bluff. 

When  conflict  ceased,  the  poem  drifted  into  collec- 
16 


242  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

tions  of  war  verse,  unjustly  credited  in  each.  It  appeared 
in  "War-  Poetry  of  the  South/'  edited  by  William  Gil- 
more  Simms,  as  a  Southern  production.  A  volume  en- 
titled "The  Library  of  Song,"  attributed  it  to  Mrs.  G.  G. 
Rowland.  In  correction  of  these  errors,  the  New  York 
Evening  Post  said  :  "We  have  before  us  a  note  from  Mr. 
H.  M.  Alden,  the  editor  of  Harper  s  Weekly,  informing 
us  that  it  was  written  by  Mrs.  Ethel  Lynn  Beers,  and  orig- 
inally contributed  to  Harpers  Weekly" 

Speaking  of  this  poem,  in  a  private  letter,  Mrs. 
Beers  wrote: — "The  poor  'Picket'  has  had  so  many 
'authentic'  claimants,  and  willing  sponsors,  that  I  some- 
times question  myself,  whether  I  did  really  write  it  that 
cool  September  morning,  after  reading  the  stereotyped 
announcement  *  All  quiet, '  &c. ,  to  which  was  added  in 
small  type  '  A  picket  shot, '"  Such  questioning  as  this  raises 
no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  beside. 

For  some  years  "Ethel  Lynn  "  was  a nomme deplume 
often  seen  in  various  metropolitan  journals,  especially 
the  New  York  Ledger.  It  was  chosen  by  a  young  girl 
born  and  educated  in  Goshen,  Orange  County,  N.  Y., 
and  rather  proud  of  her  surname  Elliott — which  had  de- 
scended direct  to  her  through  seven  generations  from 
John  Eliot,  the  Indian  Apostle — as  also  very  fond  of  the 
quaint  old  Saxon  Ethelinda  her  parents  bestowed,  espe- 
cially when  modified  by  household  rendering  to  the 
present  cognomen.  Married,  but  still  clinging  to  her 


ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS.  243 

girlish  appellation,   Ethelinda  Elliot  became  Ethel  Lynn 
Beers,  and  one  name  is  now  as  familiar  as  the  others. 

Mrs.  Beers  wrote  several  poems  during  the  war 
which  attained  popularity.  Next  to  "The  Picket- 
Guard,  "  in  hold  upon  public  favor,  and,  like  that,  put 
forth  through  the  patriotic  pases  of  Harper's  Weekly,  was 
this  : 

ON  THE  SHORES  OF  TENNESSEE . 

"  Move  my  arm-chair,  faithful  Pompey, 

In  the  sunshine  bright  and  strong, 
For  this  world  is  fading,  Pompey — 

Massa  won't  be  with  you  long  ; 
And  I  fain  would  hear  the  south  wind 

Bring  once  more  the  sound  to  me, 
Of  the  wavelets  softly  breaking 

On  the  shores  of  Tennessee. 

"  Mournful,  though,  the  ripples  murmur 

As  they  still  the  story  tell, 
How  no  vessels  float  the  banner 

That  I  Ve  loved  so  long  and  well. 
I  shall  listen  to  their  music, 

Dreaming  that  again  I  see 
Stars  and  Stripes  on  sloop  and  shallop 

Sailing  up  the  Tennessee. 

"  And,  Pompey,  while  old  massa  's  waiting 

For  Death's  last  dispatch  to  come, 
If  that  exiled  starry  banner 

Should  come  proudly  sailing  home 
You  shall  greet  it,  slave  no  longer — ' 


244  WAISS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Voice  and  hand  shall  both  be  free 
That  shout  and  point  to  Union  colors 
On  the  waves  of  Tennessee.  " 

"  Massa  's  berry  kind  to  Pompey  ; 

But  old  darkey  's  happy  here, 
Where  he  's  tended  corn  and  cotton 

For  dese  many  a  long  gone  year. 
Over  yonder  Missis'  sleeping — 

No  one  tends  her  grave  like  me  ; 
Mebbe  she  would  miss  the  flowers 

She  used  to  love  in  Tennessee, 

"  'Pears  like  she  was  watching,  Massa — 

If  Pompey  should  beside  him  stay, 
Mebbe  she  'd  remember  better 

How  for  him  she  used  to  pray, 
Telling  him  that  way  up    onder 

White  as  snow  his  soul  would  be, 
If  he  served  the  Lord  of  Heaven 

While  he  lived  in  Tennessee. " 

Silently  the  tears  were  rolling 

Down  the  poor  old  dusky  face, 
As  he  stepped  behind  his  master, 

In  his  long-accustomed  place. 
Then  a  silence  fell  around  them, 

As  they  gazed  on  rock  and  tree 
Pictured  in  the  placid  waters 

Of  the  rolling  Tennessee. 

Master,  dreaming  of  the  battle 

Where  he  fought  by  Marion's  side. 

When  he  bid  the  haughty  Tarleton 
Stoop  his  lordly  crest  of  pride ; 

Man,  remembering  how  yon  sleeper 


ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS.  245 

Once  he  held  upon  his  knee, 
Ere  she  loved  the  gallant  soldier, 
Ralph  Vevair,  of  Tennessee. 

Still  the  south  wind  fondly  lingers 

'Mid  the  veteran's  silver  hair  ; 
Still  the  bondman  close  beside  him 

Stands  behind  the  old  arm-chair. 
With  his  dark-hued  hand  uplifted, 

Shading  eyes,  he  bends  to  see 
Where  the  woodland,  boldly  jutting, 

Turns  aside  the  Tennessee. 

Thus  he  watches  cloud-born  shadows 

Glide  from  tree  to  mountain-crest, 
Softly  creeping,  aye  and  ever, 

To  the  river's  yielding  breast. 
Ha  !  above  the  foliage  yonder 

Something  flutters  wild  and  free  ! 
"Massa!  Massa  !  Hallelujah  ! 

The  flag  's  come  back  to  Tennessee  !  " 

"  Pompey,  hold  me  on  your  shoulder, 

Help  me  stand  on  foot  once  more, 
•  That  I  may  salute  the  colors 

As  they  pass  my  cabin  door. 
Here  's  the  paper,  signed,  that  frees  you. 

Give  a  freeman's  shout  with  me — 
God  and  Union  ! '  be  our  watchword, 
Evermore  in  Tennessee  !  " 

Then  the  trembling  voice  grew  fainter, 

And  the  limbs  refused  to  stand  ; 
One  prayer  to  Jesus,  and  the  soldier 

Glided  to  a  better  land. 


246  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

When  the  flag  went  down  the  river 

Man  and  master  both  were  free, 
While  the  ring-dove's  note  was  mingled 

With  the  rippling  Tennessee. 

Not  nearly  so  often  read  as  the  foregoing,  yet  more 
artistically  wrought  out,  and  having  an  irresistible  touch 
of  pathos  at  the  close,  is  the  following  : 

THE  TALLEST  SOLDIER  OF  THEM  ALL. 

How  brave  they  looked  with  guns  ashine. 

With  floating  flag  and  pennon  gay  ; 
How  firmly  trod  the  martial  line, 

Through  surging  crowds  along  Broadway ! 
While  women  turned  to  say  "  Good-bye,  " 

Through  tears  that  would  unbidden  fall, 
*.,  waiting,  watched  and  saw  but  one, 

The  tallest  soldier  of  them  all. 

On  tip-toe  I  had  buckled  close 

A  shoulder-strap  that  morn  for  him, 
But  scarce  could  see  the  simple  clasp, 

Through  eyes  with  welling  sorrow  dim  ; 
*Vith  sad  adieu  and  backward  glance, 

He  left  me  at  the  bugle's  call, 
To  pray  that  God  would  watch  and  keep 

The  tallest  soldier  of  them  all. 


A  squad  went  marching  down  the  glen, 
Picked  men  and  true,  for  earnest  work  ; 

To  start  from  covert  by  the  way, 
A  foe  who  might  in  ambush  lurk. 

With  wary  eye  and  rifle  poised, 


E  THEL  L  YNN  BEER  S.  247 

With  bated  breath  and  soft  foot-fall, 
They  followed  through  that  narrow  pass 
The  tallest  soldier  of  them  all. 

Along  the  crags  the  stained  vines, 

Red  with  the  ray  October  sheds, 
Fluttered  and  swung  their  trembling  spray 

Around  two  crouching  rebel  heads. 
Above  the  rock  a  flashing  gleam, 

Adown  the  glen  a  true  sent  ball, 
And  there  outstretched  lay  stark  and  still 

The  tallest  soldier  of  them  all. 

They  brought  him  back,  my  gallant  love, 

With  solemn  step  and  bugle  wail, 
They  bore  him  through  the  crowded  street, 

My  soldier  murdered  in  the  vale  • 
Pallid  and  still  he  lay  at  rest, 

Beneath  the  sacred,  starry  pall, 
So  low  at  last  /  stooped  to  kiss, 

The  tallest  soldier  of  them  all. 

Mrs.  Beers  has  written  much  verse,  since  early  school- 
days when  the  old  garret  was  her  sanctum,  and  her  only 
advisers  were  those  parental.  Perhaps  t'ne  most  popular 
of  her  productions,  since  the  war,  is 

WEIGHING  '1HE  BABY . 

"  How  many  pounds  does  the  baby  weigh — 

Baby  who  came  but  a  month  ago  ? 
How  many  pounds  from  the  crowning  curl 
To  the  rosy  point  of  the  restless  toe  ?  " 

Grandfather  ties  the  'kerchief  knot, 

Tenderly  guides  the  swinging  weight, 


248  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

And  carefully  over  his  glasses  peers 
To  read  the  record,  "  only  eight.  " 

Softly  the  echo  goes  around  : 

The  lather  laughs  at  the  tiny  girl  ; 

The  fair  young  mother  sings  the  words, 

While  grandmother  smooths  the  golden  curl. 

And  stooping  above  the  precious  thing, 
Nestles  a  kiss  within  a  prayer, 

Murmuring  softly  "  Little  one, 

Grandfather  did  not  weigh  you  fair. " 

Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  smile, 

Or  the  love  that  came  with  the  helpless  one  ; 

Nobody  weighed  the  threads  of  care, 
From  wuich  a  woman's  life  is  spun. 

No  index  tells  the  mighty  worth 
Of  a  little  baby's  quiet  breath — 

A  soft,  unceasing  metronome, 

Patient  and  faithful  until  death. 

Nobody  weighed  the  baby's  soul, 

For  here  on  earth  no  weights  there  be 

That  could  avail  ;  God  only  knows 
Its  value  in  eternity. 

Onlv  eight  pounds  to  hold  a  soul 
That  seeks  no  angel's  silver  wing, 

But  shrines  it  in  this  human  guise. 
Within  so  frail  and  small  a  thing  ! 

Oh,  mother  !  laugh  your  merry  note  ; 

Be  gay  and  glad,  but  do  n't  forget 
From  baby's  eyes  looks  out  a  soul 

That  claims  a  home  in  Eden  yet. 


ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 


249 


It  was  penned  while  the  author  was  a  guest  at  a 
country  home,  where  the  infant  of  the  household  had 
been  weighed  the  same  morning.  Nearly  every  newspaper 
reader  is  familiar  with  it,  as  also  with  the  following, 

entitled 

*&-\ 

GRANNIE'S  TEST. 

Dear  Grannie  is  with  us  no  longer, 

Her  hair  that  was  white  as  the  snow 
Was  parted  one  morning  forever, 

On  her  head  lying  softly  and  low  ; 
Her  hands  left  the  Bible  wide  open, 

To  tell  us  the  road  she  had  trod, 
With  waymarks  like  footsteps  to  show  us 

The  path  she  had  gone  up  to  God. 

No  wonderful  learning  had  Grannie, 

She  knew  not  the  path  of  the  stars, 
Nor  aught  of  the  comet's  wide  cycle- 

Nor  Nebula's  dim  cloudy  bars, 
But  she  knew  how  the  wise  men  adoring 

Saw  a  star  in  the  East  long  ago, 
She  knew  how  the  first  Christmas  anthem 

Came  down  to  the  Shepherds  below. 

She  never  had  heard  of  Hugh  Miller, 

Nor  knew  what  philosophers  said  ; 
The  birthday  of  earth  was  a  problem 

Which  never  disturbed  her  old  head. 
About  the  Pre-Adamite  fossils 

No  mental  disturbance  she  knew, 
Holding  fast  to  her  faith  pure  and  holy, 

That  her  God-given  Bible  was  true. 


2 50  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

She  had  her  own  test,  I  remember — 

For  people,  who  e'er  they  might  be. 
When  we  spoke  of  the  strangers  about  us, 

But  lately  come  over  the  sea  ; 
Of  "  Laura,  "  and  "  Lizzie,  "  and  "  Jamie,  " 

And  stately  old  "  Essellby  Oakes,  " 
She  listened  and  whispered  it  softly — 

"  My  dear,  are  these  friends  meetiri- folks?" 

When  our  John  went  away  to  the  city 

With  patrons,  whom  all  the  world  knew 

To  be  sober  and  honest,  great  merchants, 
For  Grannie  this  all  would  not  do 

Till  she  'd  pulled  at  John's  sleeve  in  the  twilight 
To  be  certain,  before  he  had  gone  ; 

And  he  smiled  as  he  heard  the  old  question — 
"Are  you  sure  they  're  meetin'-folks,  John  ?" 

When  Minnie  came  back  from  the  city, 

And  left  heart  and  happiness  there, 
I  saw  her  close  kneeling  by  Grannie, 

With  the  dear  wrinkled  hands  on  her  hair  ; 
And  amid  the  low  sobs  of  the  maiden 

Came  softly  the  tremulous  tone — 
"  He  was  n't  like  meetin'-folks,  Minnie  ; 

Dear  child,  you  are  better  alone.  " 

And  now  from  the  corner  we  miss  her, 

We  hear  that  reminder  no  more  ; 
But  still,  unforgotten,  the  echo 

Comes  back  from  the  far-away  shore, 
Till  Sophistry  slinks  in  the  corner, 

Tho'  Charity  sweet  has  her  due, 
Yet  we  feel,  if  we  want  to  meet  Grannie, 

'T  were  best  to  be  meetin'-folks,  too  ! 


E  THEL  L  YNN  BEERS  .  251 

These  lines  were  written  about  the  same  time,  and 
have  been  frequently  printed.  Can  any  sympathetic  per- 
son read  them  aloud,  without  a  tremor  as  of  tears  in  his 
voice  ? 

WHICH  SHALL  IT  BE  °l 

"Which  shall  it  be  ?   which  shall  it  be  ?  " 
I  looked  at  John — John  looked  at  me, 
(Dear,  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 
As  well  as  tho'  my  locks  were  jet), 
And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak 
My  voice  seemed  strangely  low  and  weak. 

41  Tell  me  again  what  Robert  said  ;" 
And  then  I  list'ning  bent  my  head. 

"  This  is  his  letter  :  " 

41 1  will  give 

A  house  and  land  while  you  shall  live, 
If,  in  return,  from  out  your  seven 
One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given.  " 

I  looked  at  John's  old  garments  worn, 

I  thought  of  all  that  John  had  borne 

Of  poverty  and  work  and  care, 

Which  I,  though  willing,  could  not  share  ; 

I  thought  of  seven  mouths  to  feed, 

Of  seven  little  children's  need, 

And  then  of  this. 

"  Come,  John, "  said  I, 
"  We  '11  choobe  among  them  as  they  lie 
Asleep  ;  "  so  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Dear  John  and  I  surveyed  our  band. 
First  to  the  crib  we  lightly  stepped 


252  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Where  Lilian,  the  baby,  slep.. 

Her  damp  curls  lay  like  gold  alight 

A  glory  'gainst  the  pillow  white. 

Softly  her  father  stooped  to  lay 

His  rough  hand  down  in  loving  way, 

When  dream  or  whisper  made  her  stir, 

And  huskily  said  John — "  Not  her.  " 

We  stooped  beside  the  trundle-bed, 

And  one  long  ray  of  lamp-light  shed 

Athwart  the  boyish  faces  there 

In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  fair  ; 

I  saw  on  Jamie's  rough,  red  cheek 

A  tear  undried.     Ere  John  could  speak 

"  He  's  but  a  baby,  too,  "  said  I, 
And  kissed  him  as  we  hurried  by. 
Pale,  patient  Robbie's  angel  face 
Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering's  trace. 

"  No,  for  a  thousand  crowns,  not  him,  " 
We  whispered  while  our  eyes  were  dim. 
Poor  Dick  !  bad  Dick  !   our  wayward  son, 
Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one — 
Could  he  be  spared  ?     "  Nay,  He  who  gave 
Bids  us  befriend  him  to  his  grave  ; 
Only  a  mother's  heart  can  be, 
Patient  enough  for  such  as  he  ; 
And  so,  "  said  John.  "  I  would  not  dare, 
To  send  him  from  her  bedside  prayer.  " 
Then  stole  we  softly  up  above 
And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love. 

"  Perhaps  for  her  't  would  better  be," 
I  said  to  John.     Quite  silently 
He  lifted  up  a  curl  that  lay 
Across  her  cheek  in  wilful  way, 


E  THEL  L  YNN  BEERS.  253 

And  shook  his  head.     "  Nay,  love,  not  thee,  " 

The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly. 

Only  one  more,  our  eldest  lad, 

Trusty  and  truthful,  good  atid  glad — 

So  like  his  father.     "  No,  John,  no, 

I  can  not,  will  not  let  him  go.  " 

And  so  we  wrote  in  courteous  way 
We  could  not  give  one  child  away  ; 
And  afterward,  toil  lighter  seemed, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dreamed, 
Happy  in  truth  that  not  one  face 
We  missed  from  its  accustomed  place  ; 
Thankful  to  work  for  all  the  seven., 
Trusting  the  rest  to  One  in  Heaven. 

Quite  unlike  either  of  the  foregoing,  as  to  spirit,  ex 
pression  and  form,  is 

THE  GOLD  NUGGET. 

What  shining  possibility 

Of  coin  and  link, 

Glitter  and  blink, 

Oh  yellow  gold, 

Within  thy  hold, 
For  all  thy  dull  humility  ! 

Only  the  torment  of  the  mill 
Has  tried  thy  worth, 
Oh  magic  earth  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find 
How  mortal  mind 
Holds  mastery  o'er  matter  still. 


254  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Then  out  from  torture  hot  and  slow, 
From  fire  and  wheel, 
From  rasping  steel, 
From  rolling  band, 
And  cunning  hand, 

Thy  better  self  shall  rise  and  glow. 

Art  thou  a  ring  sought  for  a  bride — 
Love's  golden  lock, 
Which  change  shall  mock  ? 
Oh,  marriage  ring, 
Close,  closer  cling, 

Though  grief  and  sorrow  shalt  betide 

Art  thou  a  pen,  whose  task  shall  be 

To  drown  in  ink 

What  writers  think  ? 

Oh,  wisely  write, 

That  pages  white 
Be  not  the  worse  for  ink  and  thee. 

A  clasp  to  hold  the  baby's  sleeve, 
That  shoulders  white 
May  shame  the  light  ? 
Oh,  kiss  the  skin 
Thy  links  within, 

Thy  trac'ry  on  its  whiteness  leave, 

A  golden  eagle  hidden  close 

In  miser's  clutch, 

From  gen'rous  touch  ? 

Oh,  eagle  fly 

Where  misery 
For  thee  shall  hide  its  wants  and  woes. 


ETHEL  L  YNN  BEERS.  2  5 5 

Be  worthy  of  thyself,  oh  Gold  ! 

By  brain  outwrought, 

By  soft  heart  taught ; 

Call  Charity  to  work  with  thee, 

To  work  with  thee, 
And  so  be  better  than  thy  mold. 

"Our  Folks "  has  genuine  pathos;  and  "Baby 
looking  out  for  Me" — not  a  war  poem — must  touch  any 
mother's  heart  when,  after  picturing  the  little  one  at  the 
window  pane,  it  speaks  of 

Two  little  waxen  hands, 

Folded  soft  and  silently  ; 
Two  little  curtained  eyes, 

Looking  out  no  more  for  me  ; 
Two  little  snowy  cheeks, 

Dimple-dented  nevermore  ; 
Two  little  trodden  shoes, 

That  will  never  touch  the  floor  ; 
Shoulder- ribbon  softly  twisted,       * 

Apron  folded,  clean  and  white  : 
These  are  left  me — and  these  only 

Of  the  childish  presence  bright. 

While  at  times  writing  of  commonplace  things  in  a 
commonplace  way,  Mrs.  Beers  yet  fails  not  often  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  some  every-day  lesson  in  an  every-day  garb, 
and  effectively  to  apply  it.  Like  so  many  sensitive  na- 
tures, suggestions  are  very  fruitful  with  her.  Though 
seeming  not  to  search  after  them,  she  finds  one  where 
others  might  almost  seek  in  vain,  as  in 


256  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS 

THE  EVERGREEN'S  MOAN. 

I  thought  in  early  spring,  how  fair 
'T  would  be  to  bloom  forever  ; 

To  wear  my  gallant  Lincoln  green, 
Untouched  by  time  or  weather. 

I  s°w  the  maple's  golden  gown 
About  her  cold  feet  lying  ; 

The  oak-tree's  dark  and  tattered  cloak 
Off  on  the  wild  wind  flying. 

The  crimson  knots  fell  one  by  one 
Off  from  the  rose-tree's  shoulder, 

And  so  untied  its  robe  of  green 
Ere  autumn  nights  grew  colder. 

The  ripened  grain  waved  me  adieu  ; 

The  bird  stopped,  southward  going, 
Then  went  his  way.     I  watch  alone 

The  north  wind  coldly  blowing. 

I  would  that  I,  too,  with  the  rest 
Had  been  content  to  slumber  : 

The  robe  of  life  I  coveted 

Now  clothes  me  but  to  cumber. 

There  would  have  been  then  some  regrets, 
Some  whisper  softly  sighing 

When  loit'ring  lovers  homeward  went 
Through  leaves  about  me  dying. 

And  this  is  why  to  wintry  winds 
I  tell  my  thrice-told  story. 

Life,  lonely  life,  when  friends  have  gone, 
Is  but  a  doubtful  glory. 


E  THEL  L  YNN  BEER  S.  257 

Mrs.  Beers  has  written  chiefly  for  Harper  s  Weekly, 
Harper  s  Magazine,  New  York  Ledger,  New  York  Obser- 
ver, Hearth  <5f  Home,  and  Illustrated  Christian  Weekly. 
Her  only  prose  ventures,  we  belie /e,  are  "General 
Frankie  " — a  small  volume  published  by  Randolph  &  Co., 
which  recalls  some  of  the  moral  conflicts  in  the  short  life 
of  one  who  sleeps  under  the  daisies  ;  and  a  little  Tract 
House  story.  She  carries  her  conscience  into  all  of  her 
work,  her  chief  desire,  as  she  has  once  expressed  it,  being 
to  write  no  word  or  line  that  should  mislead  an  earnest 
soul.  She  finds  life's  pathos  along  its  traveled  ways, 
and  beneath  the  common  speech,  and  says  when  she 
brings  her  poems  all  together  into  a  book  she  shall  chris- 
ten them  "Burdocks  and  Daisies,"  since  they  have  been 
gathered  by  the  highway's  dust,  and  within  life's  trodden 
courts.  Mrs.  Beers  is  of  medium  stature,  with  dark  hair 
and  eyes,  and  lives  in  Orange,  New  Jersey. 


17 


ROSA  H.  THORPE. 

IT  is  seldom  that  a  historical  incident  forms  the 
basis  of  a  really  popular  poem.  Rarer  still  is  it 
that-  such  a  poem  drifts  up  and  down  through 
the  newspapers,  year  after  year,  unclaimed,  the  general 
wonder  as  to  its  authorship  unsatisfied.  In  the  time  ol 
Cromwell,  a  young  soldier,  for  some  offense,  was  con- 
demned to  die,  and  the  time  of  his  death  was  fixed  at 
"the  ringing  of  the  curfew.**  Every  effort  to  avert  his 
fata  proved  unavailing.  The  young  girl  for  whom  his 
life  held  most,  pleaded  tearfully  with  the  judges,  and 
even  petitioned  Cromwell  himself,  but  in  vain.  Almost 
despairingly,  she  sought  to  bribe  the  sexton,  in  hope  that 
for  once  a  day  might  fade  to  darkness  with  no  curfew's 
knell ;  but  the  faithful  old  man  was  true.  The  hour  of 
execution  drew  nigh  ;  every  preparation  was  complete  ; 
the  condemned  and  his  executioner  stood  waiting  in  the 
sunset  light  for  a  signal  which  did  not  sound.  Long  after- 
wards that  strange  and  fortunate  silence,  and  its  comfor- 
ting results,  found  explanation  in  the  simple  yet  touching 
ballad  of 

11  CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT," 

Slowly  England's  sun  was  setting  o'er  the  hill-tops  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one  sad  day, 
And  the  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a  man  and  maiden 
fair 


26o  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

He  with  footsteps  slow  and  weary,  she  with  sunny,  floating 

hair  ; 
He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful,   she  with  lips  all  cold 

and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur — 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.  " 

"  Sexton, "  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the  prison  old, 
With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  with  its  walls  dark,  damp  and 

cold, 

"  I  've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night  to  die, 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is  nigh  ; 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,"  and  her  lips  grew  strangely 

white 
As  she  breathed  the  husky  whisper : 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night. " 

"Bessie,"    calmly  spoke   the   sexton — every   word   pierced  her 

young  heart 

Like  the  piercing  of  an  arrow,  like  a  deadly  poisoned   dart, 
"Long,   long  years    I  've  rung  the  Curfew   from  that   gloomy, 

shadowed  tower  ; 

Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  jtwilight  hour  ; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I  'm  old  I  still  nJust  do  it, 

Curfew  it  must  ring  to-night.  " 

Wild  her   eyes   and   pale   her   features,    stern   and  white   her 

thoughtful  brow, 

And  within  her  secret  bosom  Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow. 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read  without  a  tear  or  sigh  : 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  Basil  Underwood  must  die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes  grew  large 

and  bright — 
In  an  undertone  she  murmured  : 

11  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.  " 


ROSA  H,   THORPE.  26 1 

She  with  quick  steps  bounded  forward,  sprung  within  the  old 
church  door, 

Left  the  old  man  threading  slowly  paths  so  oft  he  'd  trod  be- 
fore ; 

Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  eye  and  cneeic 
aglow, 

Mounted  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro 

As  she  climbed  the  dusty  ladder  on  which  fell  no  ray  of  light, 

Up  and  up — her  white  lips  saying — 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night.  " 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the  great 

dark  bell ; 

Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway  down  to  hell. 
Lo,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  't  is  the  hour  of  Curfew 

now, 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,   stopped  her  breath  and 

paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?     No,  never  !     Flash  her  eyes  with  sudden 

light, 
And  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly — 

*'  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !" 

Out  she  swung,  far  out,  the  city  seemed  a  speck  of  light  below, 
'Twixt  Heaven  and  earth  her  form  suspended,  as  the  bell  swung 

to  and  fro, 
And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and  deaf,  heard  not  the 

bell, 
But  he  thought  it  still  was  ringing  fair  young  Basil's  funeral 

knell. 
Still  the  maiden  clung  more  firmly,  and  with  trembling  lips 

and  white, 
Said  to  hush  her  heart's  wild  beating — 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  lo-night.  " 


262  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

It  was  o'er,   the  bell  ceased  swaying,   and  the  maiden  stepped 

once  more 

Firmly  on  the  dark  old  ladder,  where  for  hundred  years  before 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted.     The  brave   deed  that  she 

had  done 

Shpulu  be  told  long  ages  after,  as  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Should  illume  the  sky  with  beauty  ;  aged  sires  with  heads  of 

white, 
Long  should  tell  the  little  children 

Curfew  did  not  ring  that  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell ;    Bessie  sees  him,  and  her 

brow, 

Full  of  hope  and  full  of  gladness,  has  no  anxious  traces  now. 
At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her  hands  all  bruised  and 

torn  ; 
And  her  face  so  sweet  and  pleading,  yet  with  sorrow  pale   and 

worn, 

Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity,  lit  his  eye  with  misty  light ; 
"Go  !  your  lover  lives,"  said  Cromwell, 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !  " 

It  was  in  April,  1867,  that  another  young  girl  first 
read  the  incident  here  told.  She  chanced  upon  it  in  a 
little  story  entitled  "Love  and  Loyalty, "  and  it  haunted 
her  like  a  dream,  absorbed  her  thought,  and  wholly  unfit- 
ted her  for  study,  until,  under  pretext  of  studiousness,  with 
slate,  pencil  and  arithmetic  in  hand,  she  wrote  out  her 
rhythmic  version.  Her  name  was  Rosa  Hartwick,  and 
she  lived  in  Litchfield,  Mich.  She  was  then  only  about 
sixteen  years  old,  having  been  born  July  18,  1850,  in 
Mishawaka,  Ind.  Rhyming  was  natural  to  her,  though 


ROSA  H.   THORPE.  263 

at  this  time  she  had  written  little,  and  published  next  to 
nothing.  Indeed  this  poem,  the  most  successful  she  has 
ever  penned,  was  not  printed  until  the  fall  of  1870,  when 
it  was  sent  to  the  Detroit  Commercial  Advertiser,  and  called 
forth  a  letter  of  hearty  recognition  from  the  editor  thereof. 

Miss  Hartwick  began  writing  for  Young  America — 
a  magazine  for  youth — but  has  comributed  chiefly  to  the 
press  of  Michigan,  her  adopted  State.  She  wrote  many 
poems  before  her  twentieth  year,  some  of  which,  in  sugges- 
tion and  style,  stand  as  witnesses  for  her  work  in  the 
stanzas  already  quoted.  We  give  place  to  one  entitled 

DOWN  THE  TRACK. 

In  the  deepening  shades  of  twilight, 

Stood  a  maiden  young  and  fair  ; 
Raindrops  gleamed  on  cheek  and  forehead — 

Raindrops  glistened  in  her  hair. 
Where  the  bridge  had  stood  at  morning, 

Yawned  a  chasm  deep  and  black  ; 
Faintly  came  the  distant  rumbling 

From  the  train  far  down  the  track. 

Paler  grew  each  marble  feature, 

Faster  came  her  frightened  breath, — 
Charlie  kissed  her  lips  at  morning — 

Charlie  rushing  down  to  death  ! 
Must  she  stand  and  see  him  perish  ! 

Angry  waters  answer  back  ; 
Louder  comes  the  distant  rumbling 

From  the  train  far  down  the  track. 


264  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

At  death's  door  faint  hearts  grow  fearless , 

Miracles  are  sometimes  wrought, 
Springing  from  the  heart's  devotion 

In  ihe  forming  of  a  thought. 
From  her  waist  she  tears  her  apron, 

Flings  her  tangled  tresses  back, 
Working  fast  and  praying  ever 

For  the  train  far  down  the  track. 

See  !  a  lurid  spark  is  kindled, 

Right  and  left  she  flings  the  flame, 
Turns  and  glides  with  airy  fleetness 

Downward  toward  the  coming  train  ; 
Sees  afar  the  red  eye  gleaming 

Through  the  shadows  still  and  black  ; 
Hark  !  a  shriek  prolonged  and  deafening, 

Tuey  have  seen  her  down  the  track  ! 

Onward  comes  the  train — now  slower, 
But  the  maiden,  where  is  she  ? 

Flaming  torch  and  flying  footsteps, 
Fond  eyes  gaze  in  vain  to  see. 

With  a  white  face  turned  to  Heaven, 
All  the  sunny  hair  thrown  back, 

There  they  found  her,  one  hand  lying 
-    Crushed  and  bleeding  on  the  track. 

Eager  faces  bent  above  her, 

Wet  eyes  pitied,  kind  lips  blest ; 
But  she  saw  no  face  save  Charlie's — 

'T  was  for  him  she  saved  the  rest. 
Gold  they  gave  her  from  their  bounty  ; 

But  her  sweet  eyes  wandered  back 
To  the  face  whose  love  will  scatter 

Roses  all  along  life's  track. 


ROSA  H.   THORPE  265 

This  is  but  the  versification  of  an  actual  incident,  as 
recited  years  ago  in  a  newspaper  paragraph.  It  is  in  such 
realistic  effort  that  the  author  appears  happiest,  and 
to  it  she  seems  most  inclined.  From  a  series  of  legends, 
which  her  pen  has  decked  out  in  rhyme,  we  take  this  : 

THE  LUCK  OF  MUNCASTER. 

Beside  the  crystal  well  she  stood, 

Fair  Margaret,  Lowther's  daughter, 
The  hazel  eyes  smiled  back  at  her 

Up  from  the  sparkling  water. 
The  sunlight  fell  on  tresses  bright, 

Tresses  half  brown — half  golden, 
While  at  her  feet  Lord  William  knelt 

And  told  the  story  olden. 

An  outlaw  border  chieftain  he, 

Of  haughty  mein  and  carriage, 
With  earnest  words  on  bended  knee, 

Besought  her  hand  in  marriage. 
"  My  liie  with  thine,"  the  lady  said, 

"  Can  never  be  united  ; 
To  brave  Sir  John,  of  Muncaster, 
This  hand  of  mine  is  plighted." 

"  My  vengeance,"  cried  the  dark-browed  Scot, 

"  On  thee,  proud  Lowther's  daughter, 
This  lord  of  thine  shall  not  be  safe 

From  me  on  land  or  water.  " 
Disdainful  smiled  the  lady  stern, 

"  Thy  threats  are  unavailing, 
While  Sir  John  owns  the  sacred  cup 
Mischance  can  ne'er  assail  him. 


266  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

"  'T  was  Henry,  Sixth,  pronounced  the  charm, 

(A  glass  cup  was  the  token), 
'  In  Muncaster  good  luck  shall  reign 

Till  this  charmed  cup  is  broken. ' 
A  hundred  years  the  charm  hath  held 

Its  power  beyond  undoing  ; 
Good  luck  attends  Muncaster  lords 
In  battle  and  in  wooing.  " 

"  And  this  the  luck  of  Muncaster  ?" 

Said  the  rejected  lover. 
"  The  charm  hath  stood  a  hundred  years, 

It  shall  not  stand  another.  " 
Then  straight  to  Carlisle  tower  he  rode. 

"  My  lord,  "  he  cried,  "  make  ready, 
For  Douglass  comes  with  Scottish  hordes  ; 
Each  arm  is  strong  and  steady. 

"Prepare  to  give  them  battle  now, 

And  mete  out  justice  measure  ; 
Or  send  some  trusted  messenger 

For  thy  most  valued  treasure. " 
"  Small  treasure  have  I, "  Sir  John  said, 

"  But  one  in  casket  oaken 
I  fain  would  save  from  plundering  hand 
Untarnished  and  unbroken. 

"  Go  thou  and  bring  the  gem  I  prize  ; 

Thou  art  no  foe  or  stranger, 
Else  why  hast  rode  this  weary  way, 

To  warn  me  of  my  danger  ?  " 
And  ere  the  bat  had  winged  its  flight 

Across  night's  sable  curtain, 
The  dark  browed  knight  of  Liddersdale 

Had  done  the  message  certain. 


ROSA  H.   THORPE.  267 

"  Now,  by  my  ladie'  s  lips,  I  swear. 

Thy  friendship  is  amazing,  " 
Cried  gay  Sir  John,  of  Muncaster, 

Into  the  dark  face  gazing. 
"  Swear  not  by  lips  of  her  you  love, 

You  never  more  shall  press  them  ; 

Bright  are  the  locks  of  Margaret's  hair, 

No  more  shalt  thou  caress  them,  " 

Exclaimed  the  fiery  Scot  in  glee, 

'*!  hold  the  precious  token, 
That  binds  good  luck  to  thee'and  thine — 

That  charmed  spell  shall  be  broken. 
Behold  !  I  dash  it  to  the  earth, 

In  vain  thy  deepest  regret ; 
Douglass  shall  win  thy  palace  tower, 

And  /  the  lady  Marg'ret.  " 

The  traitor  fled.     Sir  John  sank  down 

Beside  the  casket  oaken. 
Oh,  miracle  !  the  crystal  cup 

Lay  there  unharmed,  unbroken. 
Two  thousand  soldiers  came  in  time 

To  stay  the  Douglass  slaughter, 
And  gay  Sir  John  was  married  to 

Fair  Margaret,  Lowther's  daughter. 

Miss  Hartwick  was  married  in  1871,  to  Edmund  C. 
Thorpe,  and  soon  went  to  reside  in  Fremont,  Ind.,  where 
she  has  lived  since,  until  lately  returning  to  Litchfield. 
Domestic  cares  have  left  her  small  opportunity  for  com- 
position, and  little  from  her  pen  has  of  late  appeared 
in  print,  save  the  wandering  waif  so  universally  read. 


268  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

She  has  made  a  collection  of  her  poems,  with  a  view  to 
early  publication  in  book  form.  From  the  few  at  our 
hand  we  will  give  only  one  more  entitled 

WAITING. 

When  the  dusky  shadows  o'er  the  earth  are  spread, 
Nestling  'mid  the  pillows  of  her  trundle  bed, 
Peering  through  the  darkness,  roguish  little  Miss, 
Waiting  in  the  twilight  for  a  mother's  kiss. 

Pretty,  thoughtful  maiden,  dreaming  dreams  of  love, 
Gazing  at  the  spangled,  moonlit  sky  above  ; 
Looking  down  the  pathway  with  an  anxious  eye, 
Waiting  for  her  lover,  coming  by-and-by. 

When  the  golden  sunbeams  slant  across  the  floor, 
Stately  little  woman  standing  in  the  door, 
Making  a  sweet  picture  in  her  tidy  dress, 
Waiting  for  her  husband  and  a  fond  caress. 

Weary,  anxious  mother,  years  of  toil  and  care 
Threading  lines  of  silver  in  her  sunny  hair : 
Breezes  kiss  her  forehead,  balmy,  soft  and  cool, 
Waiting  for  the  children  coming  home  from  school. 

By  the  shady  window  in  her  easy  chair, 
With  the  sunlight  resting  on  her  snowy  hair, 
Grandmother  is  waiting  in  the  dear  old  home, 
Waiting  till  the  Master  gently  bids  her  come. 

Waiting  for  her  loved  ones,  this  is  woman's  lot, 
In  the  stately  palace  or  the  lowly  cot, 
And  when  death  shall  claim  her  she  will  go  before, 
And  await  their  coming  on  the  other  shore. 


ROSA  H.   THORPE.  269 

Mrs.  Thorpe  is  tall  and  slender,  has  dark  brown 
eyes,  and  hair  to  match.  She  lives  more  in  the  future 
than  the  past ;  and  has  the  hopefulness  of  a  poet,  blent 
with  much  of  a  poet's  sensitive  disposition.  In  writing, 
she  sympathizes  intensely  with  her  theme,  and  is  often 
carried  forward  resistlessly,  without  due  heed  to  finish  of 
versification  and  accuracy  of  rhyme.  But  however  much 
or  carefully  she  may  write  in  future,  she  can  hardly  pro- 
duce anything  which  shall  win  the  popularity  her  earliest 
ballad  has  achieved. 


GEORGE  W.  BUNGAY. 

[HE  subject  of  this  sketch  found  recognition  as  a 
Newspaper  Poet  many  years  ago,  though  just 
how  early  he  began  writing  verse  we  cannot  say. 
Choosing  literature  as  a  profession,  his  pen  has  been 
very  prolific,  and  some  of  its  emanations  have  attained 
unusual  popularity.  If  we  mistake  not,  the.  first  poem 
of  his  which  came  to  be  a  waif,  was 

"  BLESS  GOD  FOR  RAIN .  " 

'  Bless  God  for  rain  ! "  the  good  man  said, 

And  wiped  away  a  grateful  tear  ; 
That  we  may  have  our  daily  bread, 

He  drops  a  shower  upon  us  here. 
Our  Father !  Thou  who  dwellest  in  Heaven, 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  pearly  shower  ! 
The  blessed  present  Thou  hast  given 

To  man,  and  beast,  and  bird  and  flower. 

The  dusty  earth,  with  lips  apart, 

Looked  up  where  rolled  an  orb  of  flame, 
As  though  a  prayer  came  from  its  heart 

For  rain  to  come  ;  and  lo  !  it  came  ! 
The  Indian  corn,  with  silken  plume, 

And  flowers,  with  tiny  pitchers  filled, 
Send  up  their  praise  of  sweet  perfume, 

For  precious  drops  the  clouds  distilled. 


272  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

The  modest  grass  is  fresh  and  green  ; 

The  brooklet  swells  its  song  again  ; 
Methinks  an  angel's  wing  is  seen 

In  every  cloud  that  brings  us  Rain. 
There  is  a  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

Upon  the  arch  where  tempests  trod  ; 
God  wrote  it  ere  the  world  was  dry — 

It  is.  the  autograph  of  God. 

Up  where  the  heavy  thunders  rolled, 

And  clouds  of  fire  were  swept  along, 
The  sun  shines  in  a  car  of  gold, 

And  soaring  larks  dissolve  in  song. 
The  rills  that  gush  from  mountains  rude, 

Flow  trickling  to  the  verdant  base, 
Just  like  the  tears  of  gratitude 

That  often  stain  a  good  man's  face. 

Great  King  of  Peace,  deign  now  to  bless  ; 

The  windows  of  the  sky  unbar  ; 
Shower  down  the  rain  of  Righteousness, 

And  wash  away  the  stain  of  War  ; 
And  let  the  radiant  bow  of  Love 

In  beauty  mark  the  moral  sky, 
Like  that  fair  sign  unrolled  above, 

But  not  like  it  to  fade  and  die. 

This  appeared  originally  in  Burritt's  Christian  Citizen 
— a  periodical  contemporaneous  with  Grahams  Magazine 
in  its  palmy  days.  Copied  into  the  New  York  Trib- 
une, the  poem  was  at  once  republished  in  other  jour- 
nals, and  for  a  long  time  held  place  among  estrays.  Its 
composition  was  quite  impromtu.  Mr.  Bungay,  travel- 
ing to  meet  a  lecture  appointment  when  drouth  was 


GEORGE   W.  BUNG  AY  273 

scorching  the  land,  was  delayed  by  a  heavy  shower,  and 
chafed  over  the  detention.  Arriving  late  where  his  audi- 
ence waited,  he  found  them  talking  of  the  rain,  in  thank- 
ful mood  that  was  like  a  rebuke  to  his  irritation — indeed 
the  feeling  of  all  present  seemed  to  syllable  itself  in  the 
expression  of  one  happy  farmer  among  the  outsiders — 
"Bless  God  for  rain!"  The  poem  was  born  of  this 
sentiment,  and,  forthwith  written  down,  was  sent  off  un- 
corrected  for  publication — an  inspiration  of  the  hour, 
lacking  the  best  artistic  finish,  perhaps,  but  aglow  with 
the  hour's  feeling  and  the  picture's  rainbow  light. 

Mr.  Bungay's  rhythmic  products  would  fill  a  volume. 
They  have  been  generally  of  the  popular,  spontaneous 
kind,  on  a  level  with  popular  apprehension.  His  lively 
railroad  lyric,  also  one  of  the  earliest  from  his  pen,  full 
of  nerve  and  fire,  and  having  somewhat  of  prophetic 
vision  in  it,  has  been  everywhere  read.  It  went  the 
rounds  in  this  country  and  in  England  nearly  twenty 
years  ago,  and  was  handsomely  spoken  of  by  the  English 
press,  especially  the  London  Athenceum  : 

THE  LOCOMOTIVE . 
"Look  out  for  the  cars  while  the  bell  rings. " — Railroad  Crossing. 

With  lungs  of  fire  and  ribs  of  steel, 
With  shrieking  valve  and  groaning  wheel, 
With  startling  scream  and  giant  stroke, 
Swift  showers  of  sparks  and  clouds  of  smoke, 
The  iron  horse  the  train  is  bringing, 
So  look  out  while  the  bell  is  ringing. 

18 


274  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

A  sheet  of  fire  illumes  the  track 
When  night  rules  in  her  tent  of  black  ; 
The  furious  steed  then  comes  to  us 
Like  an  express  from  Erebus, 
Around  us  blazing  cinders  flinging, 
So  look  out  while  the  bell  is  ringing. 

Ye  gazing,  gaping  crowds,  stand  back  ! 
Will  ye  be  crushed,  or  clear  the  track  ? 
"Aboard  !  aboard  !  "  and  off  again  ! 
The  drones  behind  can't  reach  the  train  ; 
They  stumble  where  the  switch  is  swinging, 
So  look  out  while  the  bell  is  ringing. 

Just  so  the  engine  of  reform 

Is  rolling  on  through  sun  and  storm, 

O'er  swords  and  scepters,  creeds  and  thrones 

And  bringing  bread  instead  of  stones. 

'T  freedom's  song  the  mass  is  singing, 

So  look  out  while  the  bell  is  ringing. 

The  slave  will  doff  his  yoke  and  chain, 
The  drunkard  will  not  drink  again, 
The  warrior  throw  his  sword  away  ; 
We  see  the  dawn  of  that  bright  day  ! 
Glad  news  the  harnessed  steed  is  bringing, 
So  look  out  while  the  bell  is  ringing. 

Geo.  W.  Bungay  is  a  New-Yorker  by  birth,  and  has 
numbered  rifty-four  years.  He  was  educated  mainly  at 
the  metropolis,  pursuing  classical  studies  in  a  private  in- 
stitute, famous  in  its  day,  known  as  "the  Orchard  Street 
School."  Recommenced  public  life  as  an  advocate  of 
Temperance  and  Freedom.  Three  years  he  edited  the 


GEORGE   W.  BUNG  AY, 


275 


Ilion  Independent,  in  the  village  of  Ilion,  Herkimer  county, 
N.  Y.  Its  circulation  becoming  large,  he  removed  to 
Utica  to  obtain  better  advantages,  and  continued  his 
paper  under  the  name  of  the  Central  Independent,  until 
Civil  War  began.  Invited  by  Mr.  Greeley,  then,  to  take 
an  editorial  chair  in  the  Tribune  office,  he  remained  there 
until  the  war  ended,  when  he  resigned  to  enter  the  lecture 
field. 

Mr.  Bungay's  writings  and  lectures  have  yielded  him 
a  good  income  and  have  made  him  widely  known.  His 
volume  entitled  "Crayon  Sketches  and  Off-Hand  Tak- 
ings, "  has  passed  through  several  editions,  and  was  re- 
printed in  London.  His  most  popular  lectures  are  "The 
Comic  Side  of  Life,  "  "  Head  Work  and  Hand  Work,  " 
and  "Jolly  Fellows" — each  subject  being  indicative  or 
the  lecture's  spirit  and  aim.  As  a  lecturer,  Mr.  Bungay 
has  met  with  excellent  success ;  his  lively  wit  and  rol- 
licking humor  never  failing  to  amuse  and  interest,  as  his 
genuine  common  sense  never  fails  to  instruct.  An  earnest 
and  enthusiastic  reformer,  he  has  done  efficient  service  for 
Right,  both  with  tongue  and  pen  ;  and  still  he  wearies  not, 
though  Wrong  prevails,  and  evil  sways  the  world. 

The  poem  by  Mr.  Bungay  now  most  often  read,  is 
quite  in  contrast  with  the  two  waifs  given.  Like  those, 
it  has  been  printed  over  and  over  again  in  the  newspapers, 
and  has  also  found  frequent  place  in  school  reading  books 
and  works  on  elocution.  Read  as  we  have  heard  it,  by 
finished  elocutionist,  its  effect  is  very  beautiful. 


276  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

THE  CREEDS  OF  THE  BELLS  . 

How  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells, 
In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer 
And  I  will  put  in  simple  rhyme 
The  language  of  the  golden  chime  ; 
My  happy  heart  with  rapture  swells 
Responsive  to  the  bells,  sweet  bells. 

'Ye  purifying  waters  swell  !  " 
In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell  : 

"Though  faith  alone  in  Christ  can  save, 
Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 
To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  sacred  Scripture  saith  ; 
Oh,  swell  '  ye  rising  waters,  swell  !  " 
Pealed  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell. 


,  heed  the  ancient  landmarks  well  !  " 
In  solemn  tones  exclaimed  a  bell  ; 
*  No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 
Can  change  the  just,  eternal  plan  ; 
With  God  there  can  be  nothing  new  ; 
Ignore  the  false,  embrace  the  true, 
While  all  is  well  !  is  well  !  is  well  !  " 
Pealed  out  the  good  old  Dutch  church  bell. 

'In  deeds  of  love  excel  !  excel  !  '' 
Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a  bell, 

'  This  is  the  church  not  built  on  sands, 
Embleai  of  one  not  built  with  hands  ; 
Tts  forms  and  sacred  rights  revere  — 


GEORGE   W.  BUNGAY.  277 

Come  worship  here  !  come  worship  here  ! 
In  rituals  and  faith  excel  ! " 
Chimed  out  ihe  Episcopalian  bell. 

'  Not  faith  alone,  but  works,  as  well, 

Must  test  the  soul  !  "  said  a  soft  bell. 
'  Come  here  and  cast  aside  your  load, 

And  work  your  way  along  the  road, 

With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 

And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began  ; 

Do  well  !  dp  well  !  do  well !  do  well !  " 

Rang  out  the  Unitarian  bell. 

"  To  all  the  truth  we  tell,  we  tell  '  " 

Shouted,  in  ecstacies,  a  bell  ; 
"  Come  all  ye  weary  wanderers,  see  ! 

Our  Lord  has  made  salvation  free. 

Repent,  believe,  have  faith,  and  then 

Be  saved  !  and  praise  the  Lord  !  Amen  ! 

Salvation  's  free  !  we  tell  !  we  tell  !  " 

Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 

•Farewell  !  farewell  !  base  world,  farewell  1J 

In  touching  tones  exclaimed  a  bell ; 
"  Life 'is  a  boon  to  mortals  given, 

To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  Heaven  ; 

Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod, 

Come  here  and  learn  the  way  to  God  ; 

Say  to  the  world  '  farewell,  farewell  ! '" 
^Pealed  forth  the  Presbyterian  bell. 

"  In  after  life  there  is  no  hell  ! " 

In  raptures  rang  a  cheerful  bell  ; 
"  Look  up  to  Heaven  this  holy  day 

When  angels  wait  to  lead  the  way  : 


278  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

There  are  no  fires,  no  fiends  to  blight 
The  future  life  ;  be  just  and  right 
No  hell  !  no  hell  !  no  hell  !  no  hell  !  " 
Rang  out  the  Universalist  bell. 

"  The  Pilgrim  Fathers  heeded  well 
My  cheerful  voice  !  "  pealed  forth  a  bell ; 

"  No  fetters  here  to  clog  the  soul ; 
No  arbitrary  creeds  control 
The  free  heart  and  progressive  mind 
That  leave  the  dusty  paths  behind. 
Speed  well  !  speed  well !  speed  well  !  speed  well 
Pealed  forth  the  Independent  bell. 

"  No  pope,  no  pope,  to  doom  to  hell 
The  Protestant  !  "  rang  out  a  bell. 

"  Great  Luther  left  his  fiery  zeal 
Within  the  hearts  which  truly  feel 
That  loyalty  to  God  will  be 
The  fealty  that  makes  men  free. 
No  images  where  incense  fell !  " 
Rang  out  old  Martin  Luther's  bell. 

"All  hail,  ye  saints  in  heaven  that  dwell 
Close  by  the  cross !  "  exclaimed  a  bell  ; 

"  Lean  o'er  the  battlements  of  bliss, 
And  deign  to  bless  a  world  like  this : 
Let  mortals  kneel  before  this  shrine,  — 
Adore  the  water  and  the  wine ! 
All  hail,  ye  saints  !   the  chorus  swell !  " 
Chimed  in  the  Roman-Catholic  bell. 

"  Ye  workers  who  have  toiled  so  well 
To  save  the  race  ! "  said  a  sweet  bell, 

"  With  pledge,  and  badge,  and  banner,  come. 
Each  brave  heart  beating  like  a  drum  ; 


"  Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells  — 
In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer."       Page  279. 


GEORGE    W.  BUNG  AY.  279 

Be  royal  men  of  noble  deeds, 

For  love  is  holier  than  creeds : 

Drink  from  the  well,  the  well,  the  well ! " 

In  rapture  rang  the  Temperance  bell. 

In  blank  verse,  so  difficult  of  praiseworthy  accom- 
plishment, Mr.  Bungay  has  shown  a  happy  grace.  We 
make  this  extract  from  a  poem  on  "  Days  :" 

Like  flocks  of  migratory  birds  a-wing, 

The  by-gone  days  sweep  o'er  the  sea  of  time  ; 

On,  on  to  the  eternal  calm  they  speed ! 

One  is  baptized  to  sad  and  biUer  tears, 

And  bears  an  arrow  'neath  its  drooping  winjj  ; 

One  crimsoned  o'er  with  battle's  gory  stain, 

One  scarred  and  battered  by  the  winds  and  waves 

Sobs  out  the  grief  of  shipwrecked  mariners — 

Days  the  bright  sun  mistook  for  blackest  night. 

But  low,  amid  the  flying  flock  I  see, 
Like  doves  with  rooks,  fair,  golden  days  like  this, 
•        Filled  to  the  sunset  with  the  song  of  birds, 
And  starred  all  over  with  the  noblest  deeds. 

A  poem  entitled  "The  Mountain,  "  begins  with  this 
admirable  figure  : 

Behold  the  mountain  monarch  on  his  throne 
Of  granite,  robed  in  mist,  and  crowned  with  light  ! 
The  sea,  which  sighs  forever  at  his  feet, 
Showers  kisses  on  him  from  the  lips  of  shells, 
And  breaks  like  a  great  heai't  upon  the  shore. 
Coquetting  clouds,  flushed  with  the  tints  of  morn, 
Fold  their  soft  arms  about  his  ample  neck, 


280  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

And  on  his  shoulders  weep  delicious  showers, 
While  he,  like  a  stern  gallant,  stands  unmoved. 

As  another  and  concluding  specimen  of  Mr.   Bun- 
gay's  blank  verse,  we  give  the  following  : 

THE  NIGHT  WIND . 

The  sun,  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  mist,  dropped  out 
Of  sight,  and  left  the  sky  in  widowed  robes 
Without  a  star  to  light  the  solitude, 
When  from  a  rent  in  the  thick  threatening  heaven, 
Out  stole  the  ruffian  wind,  on  mischief  bent. 
At  midnight,  while  reposing  on  my  couch, 
His  stealthy  hand  came  feeling  at  my  door, 
And  at  the  lattice,  till  the  frozen  glass 
Pealed  out  like  bells  held  in  the  fairy  hands 
Which  wrote  the  flourishes  in  frost-work  there  ; 
Thrusting  his  arm  through  every  open  pane, 
Rattling  the  blinds,  and  scaring  sleep  away — 
Piping  a  low  bass  on  the  chimney's  flute, 
Unhinging  careless  gates,  and  swinging  signs, 
And  with  his  lips  upon  a  thousand  tubes 
At  once,  blew  a  loud  universal  blast. 
He  woke  a  rose-lipped  maiden  from  her  dreams, 
Then  from  the  bent  mast  shook  her  sailor-boy 
Into  the  watery  grave  he  scooped  for  him  ; 
Returning  then  on  wings  invisible, 
Shrieked  in  her  ears  the  story  of  his  death. 

Intensely  practical  and  suggestive  as  is  Mr.  Bungay, 
he  is  in  keenest  sympathy  with  nature,  and  catches  much 
of  his  inspiration  from  natural  scenes.  Several  poems  on 


GEORGE    W.  BUNG  AY.  28i 

Birds  betray  his  love  for  the  songsters  of  the  wood.     In 
one  of  these  he  says  : 

Like  a  sad  heart  bereaved  of  rest, 

Whose  hopes  are  fled  that  used  to  be, 
Is  the  blithe  hang-bird's  lonely  nest 

That  swings  in  silence  on  the  tree. 
No  bud  to  bloom,  no  beak  to  sing, 

No  flower  to  greet  the  longing  eye, 
No  oriole  with  sunny  wing, 

No  song  between  us  and  the  sky. 

Perhaps  the  best,  at  least  the  most  generally  known, 
of  his  bird  poems,  is  this,  entitled 

THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

Blithe  wanderer  of  the  wintry  air, 
Now  here,  now  there,  now  everywhere, 

Quick  drifting  to  and  fro, 
A  cheerful  life  devoid  of  care, 

A  shadow  on  the  snow. 

The  shade  of  summer  flecks  thy  wings, 
A  pleasant  thought  thy  soft  note  brings, 

Fair  foreigner  of  song  ; 
The  grass  again  in  greenness  springs, 

Where  thy  wings  flit  along. 

Brown  sparrow,  fluttering  near  my  door, 
Whose  latch  locks  not  against  the  poor, 

I  scatter  crumbs  for  thee  ; 
For  thou  art  welcome  evermore, 

To  share  my  loaf  with  me. 


282  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Why  leave  thy  snug,  warm  nest  to-day, 
Thy  downy  sheets  and  walls  of  clay, 

And  hospitable  eaves  ? 
Why  wander  from  thy  home  away 

When  trees  have  lost  their  leaves  ? 

There  are  no  berries  on  the  tree, 
No  seeds  unhusked,  no  buds  for  thee, 

So  come  to  my  abode. 
Come  share  my  hospitality, 

And  cheer  my  solitude. 

Welcome  from  merry  England's  shore 
Dear  visitor  from  door  to  door — 

A  living  link  thou  art, 
To  bind  us  closer  than  before, 

To  homes  so  near  the  heart. 

A  winged  herald  flying  free, 

With  memories  sweet  from  sea  to  sea. 

And  dreams  that  fancy  weaves 
Of  legend,  love  and  history, 

Come  lodge  beneath  my  eaves. 

In  realms  above  the  star-lit  wall, 
Our  Father,  watching  over  all, 

To  thee  extends  His  care  ; 
He  notes  the  wee  brown  sparrow's  fall 

Through  the  unchartered  air. 

Speaking  of  trees,  Mr.  Bungay  expresses  his  regard 
for,  and  thought  concerning  them — the  former  as  strong 
and  intense  as  the  latter  is  impressive  and  full  of  solem- 
nity— in  these  lines: 


GEORGE   W.  BUNG  A  Y.  283 

The  trees  are  teachers  that  I  love, 

Whose  leafy  book  I  oft  have  read  ; 
Their  limbs  point  to  the  world  above, 

Their  roots  point  to  the  world  that 's  dead  j 
Oh  solemn  thought !  the  woods  so  lorn 

In  winter,  and  in  spring  so  fair, 
Hold  in  their  trunks  for  the  unborn, 

Cities  and  ships,  and  coffins,  there. 

One  of  Mr.  Bungay's  most  admired  poems  pictures 
a  snow-fall  and  its  exquisite  effects,  and  is  entitled 

THE  ARTISTS  OF  THE  AIR. 

Lo,  sifted  through  the  winds  that  blow, 
Down  comes  the  soft  and  silent  snow, 
White  petals  from  the  flowers  that  grow 

In  the  cold  atmosphere. 
These  starry  blossoms,  pure  and  white, 
Soft  falling,  falling,  through  the  night, 

Have  draped  the  woods  and  mere. 

The  busy  artists  of  the  air, 

Unseen,  came  down  the  stormy  stair, 

To  carve  the  wings  of  cherubs  fair, 

On  the  fresh  mounds  of  snow. 
Down  the  white  ladder  from  aloft, 
From  round  to  round,  their  steps  so  soft 

Disturbed  no  sleep  below. 

So  lightly  fell  their  winged  feet, 
The  flakes  oi  snow  could  not  repeat 
Their  beauty  on  the  stainless  sheet 
That  covered  hill  and  plain. 


284  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

They  graved  devices  on  the  post, 
Which  stood  there,  like  a  "sheeted  ghost,  " 
And  on  the  window  pane. 

On  stoop  and  fence,  and  walk  and  door, 

Were  mottoes  never  cut  before, 

In  white  words,  which  the  winds  encore, 

When  from  the  sea  they  sweep. 
Eagles  of  crystal,  stars  and  shields, 
Were  scattered  over  battle-fields, 

Where  our  loved  heroes  sleep. 

While  we  were  sleeping  on  our  beds, 
And  snow  fell  on  our  beards  and  ueads 
That  melts  not,  when  the  sunshine  sheds 

Its  warmth  from  Heaven  above, 
•       These  artists,  with  a  skillful  hand, 
Wrote  syllables  of  snow  that  stand, 

For  memory  and  love. 

And  when  the  cloudless  morning  came, 
To  light  the  world  with  torch  of  flame, 
A  shaft  of  snow  with  wreaths  of  fame 

Stood  near  the  silent  mound 
Of  one,  who  sleeps  in  dreamless  peace 
Beneath  the  soft  and  stainless  fleece, 

That  covers  all  the  ground. 

In  rhythmical  music,  true  delicacy  of  sentiment, 
real  beauty  of  figure  and  perfect  tenderness  of  expression, 
Mr.  Bungay  has  never  excelled  the  following,  albeit 
rarely  indulging  sentiment  of  its  kind.  It  deserves  perpet- 
uation among  the  gems  of  affectionate  tribute  : 


GEORGE   W.BUNGAY.  285 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  SWEETHEART. 

I  go  down  to  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  speak  to  me 
Of  my  darling,  the  soul  of  my  soul ; 

But  her  footprints  no  more 

Mark  the  desolate  shore 
Where  she  tempted  the  billows  to  roll. 

There  the  sad  billows  break, 

Like  my  heart  for  her  sake, 
On  the  lonely  and  desolate  shore  ; 

For  the  waves  of  the  sea 

Are  now  sighing  with  me, 
For  a  mortal,  now  mortal  no  more. 

With  my  heart  filled  with  tears, 

And  my  hopes  chilled  with  fears, 
By  the  grave  of  my  darling  I  knelt, 

And  I  uttered  a  prayer 

On  the  listening  air, 
Whose  dew  wept  the  sorrow  I  felt. 

There  the  winds  wove  a  shroud 

Of  a  dim  passing  cloud, 
Betwixt  me  and  the  bright  stars  above, 

And  the  form  in  its  fold, 

Like  the  shape  in  the  mould, 
Was  the  form  of  the  angel  I  love. 

Would  that  I  were  a  flower, 

Born  of  sunshine  and  shower, 
I  would  grow  on  the  grave  of  the  dead, 

I  would  sweeten  the  air 

With  the  perfume  of  prayer, 
Till  my  soul  on  its  incense  had  fled. 


286  .  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Arid  I  never  would  fade 

In  the  delicate  shade 
Of  the  tree,  in  whose  shadow  she  lies. 

There  my  petals  should  bloom 

By  her  white  rural  tomb, 
When  the  stars  closed  their  vigilant  eyes. 

Now  I  see  her  in  dreams 

On  the  banks  of  the  streams, 
In  the  sweet  land  of  exquisite  bliss, 

Where  the  sweep  of  her  wings, 

And  the  song  that  she  sings, 
Oft  awake  me  to  sadness  in  this. 

Mr.  Bungay  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the 
Tribune,  Independent,  Christian  Union,  and  other  periodi- 
cals. His  most  recent  journalistic  work  was  as  Lit- 
erary Editor  of  The  Metropolitan,  while  it  existed  as  a 
weekly  journal  in  New  York,  and  for  which  he  did  some 
very  excellent  writing. 

Mr.  Bungay  is  of  medium  stature,  full  built  in  form, 
active  and  vigorous  in  movement,  and  of  disciplined 
mental  habit.  He  is  a  good  story-teller  in  private  or  in 
public,  and  thoroughly  genial.  The  dominant  senti- 
ment of  his  life  is  reformatory  and  religious,  and  he 
promises  many  more  years  of  zealous  work  for  the  com- 
mon good. 


MARY  CLEMMER. 

|NLY  a  few  years  have  elapsed  since  the  broad 
door  of  journalism  was  opened  to  woman-kind. 
Magazine  literature  gave  the  sex  some  earlier 
opportunities,  but  tnese  weie  improved  in  a  timid,  desul- 
tory way,  and  promised  little.  Not  that  women  failed  to 
seek  literary  employment,  for  they  did  seek  it ;  but 
they  sought  it  in  the  spirit  of  amusement  and  recreation, 
rather  than  in  earnest,  persistent  service.  The  hard  toil, 
the  exacting  drudgery,  the  tiresome  activities  of  a  real  pro- 
fessional life,  were  thought  undesirable,  were  even  regard- 
ed unfit.  But  the  field  of  woman's  work  has-  widened, 
until  it  takes  in  every  kind  of  endeavor ;  and  the  wil- 
lingness and  ambition  of  woman  have  increased  until  in 
even  the  severer  branches  of  journalistic  labor  she  ex- 
cels. In  reportorial  correspondence,  and  as  editorial 
writers,  a  few  women  have  made  brilliant  successes,  and 
by  performing  well  their  daily  tasks  have  earned  hon- 
orable famf.  Ranking  first,  perhaps,  among  these,  is  the 
lady  who  wrote 

THE  CHILDLESS  MOTHER. 

I  lay  my  tasks  down  one  by  one, 

I  sit  in  the  silence  in  twilight's  grace ; 

Out  of  its  shadow,  soft  and  dun, 
Steals  like  a  star  my  baby's  face. 


288  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Mocking  cold  are  the  world's  poor  joys, 
How  poor  to  me  all  its  pomp  and  pride  ! 

In  my  lap  lie  the  baby's  idle  toys, 
In  this  very  room  the  baby  died. 

I  will  shut  these  broken  toys  away 

Under  the  lid  where  they  mutely  bide  ; 

I  will  smile  in  the  face  of  the  noisy  day, 
Just  as  if  baby  had  never  died. 

I  will  take  up  my  work  once  more 

As  if  I  had  never  laid  it  down. 
Who  will  dream  that  I  ever  wore 

Motherhood's  regal,  holy  crown  ? 

Who  will  deem  my  life  ever  bore 

Fruit  the  sweeter  in  grief  and  pain  ? 
The  flitting  smile  that  the  baby  wore 

Outrayed  the  light  ol  the  loftiest  brain. 

I  '11  meet  him  in  the  world's  rude  din, 
Who  hath  outlived  his  mother's  kiss, 

Who  hath  forsaken  her  love  for  sin — 
I  will  be  spared  her  pang  in  this. 

Man's  way  is  hard  and  sore  beset ; 

Many  may  fall,  but  few  can  win. 
Thanks,  dear  Shepherd  !     My  lamb  is  safe, 

Safe  from  sorrow,  and  safe  from  sin. 

Nevertheless,  the  way  is  long, 

And  tears  leap  up  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 

I  'd  give  my  world  for  a  cradle  song, 
And  a  kiss  from  baby — only  one. 

Mary  Clemmer.    author  of  this   tenderly   exquisite 
waif  began  literary  effort  as  so  many  others  have  begun 


MARY  CLEMMER. 


289 


it,  with  no  very  serious  intent.  Lively  and  facile  of  ex- 
pression, she  took  to  using  the  pen  for  diversion's  sake. 
By-and-by  its  use  became  a  habit,  and  after  a  time  her 
vague,  aimless  aspirations  crystallized  into  definite  pur- 
pose and  unremitting  hard  work.  Since  then  she  has 
made  herself  one  of  our  few  successful  feminine  jour- 
nalists, winning  popular  reputation  first  as  a  correspond- 
ent, but  regularly  employed  also  as  an  editorial  contribu- 
tor later  on. 

i 

Mrs.  Clemmer  was  born  at  Utica,  N.Y.,  in  the  month 
of  April,  1839.  Her  father,  Abram  Clemmer,  was  born 
in  Pennsylvania,  of  sturdy  Huguenot  descent ;  and  his 
wife  —  Margaret  Kneale  —  came  from  the  Isle  of  Man. 
As  a  child  she  was  attractive  and  graceful,  and  early 
showed  unusual  mental  gifts.  She  wrote  quite  passable 
rhyme  when  but  eleven  years  old.  .Massachusetts  becom- 
ing her  home,  she  was  mainly  educated  at  the  Academy 
in  Westfield,  where  she  received  much  encouragement 
from  the  Principal,  Professor  Goldthwaite.  Recognizing 
in  her  an  intellect  of  great  promise,  and  a  specially  poetic 
nature,  he  freely  extended  sympathy  and  aid.  Her  first 
poetry  was  published  in  the  Westfield  News -Letter,  and 
afterwards  in  a  Boston  paper.  While  still  in  her  "teens,  '' 
before  any  realization  of  life  and  its  realities,  of  her 
own  powers  and  possibilities,  had  dawned  upon  her,  she 
married  Mr.  Ames,  a  young  clergyman  of  the  Presbyte- 
rian church.  It  was  not  a  fortunate  union.  Husband  and 
wife  in  declaration,  the  two  were  never  more  than  friends 


290  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

in  fact,  and  for  reasons  wise  and  right  in  the  estimation 
of  both,  they  legajjy  separated  a  few  months  ago,  each 
retaining  the  good  will  of  the  other,  Mrs.  Ames  resuming 
her  maiden  name.  Her  former  husband  remains  on 
friendly  terms  with  her,  and  bears  ready  testimony  to  her 
virtues. 

Among  the  earlier  published  poems  by  Mrs.  Clem- 
mer,  the  following  has  long  been  a  favorite,  and  is  widely 
admired  : 

WORDS  FOR  PARTING. 

O,  what  shall  I  do,  dear, 

In  the  coming  years,  I  wonder, 
When  our  paths,  which  lie  so  sweetly  near, 

Shall  lie  so  far  asunder  ? 
O,  what  shall  I  do,  dear, 

Through  all  the  sad  to-morrows, 
When  the  sunny  smile  has  ceased  to  cheer 

That  smiles  away  my  sorrows  ? 

What  shall  I  do,  my  friend, 

When  you  are  gone  forever  ? 
My  heart  its  eager  need  will  send 

Through  the  years  to  find  you  never. 
And  how  will  it  be  with  you, 

In  the  weary  world,  I  wonder  ; 
Will  you  love  me  with  a  love  as  true, 

When  our  paths  lie  far  asunder  ? 

A  sweeter,  sadder  thing 

My  life,  for  having  known  you  ; 
Forever  with  my  sacred  km, 

My  soul's  soul,  I  must  own  you. 


MARY  CLEM  ME  It  2gj 

Forever  mine,  my  friend, 

From  June  to  life's  December  ; 
Not  mine  to  have  or  hold, 

But  to  pray  for  and  remember. 

The  way  is  short  O  friend, 

That  reaches  out  before  us  ; 
God's  tender  heavens  above  us  benJ, 

His  love  is  smiling  o'er  us. 
A  little  while  is  ours 

For  sorrow  or  for  laughter  ; 
I  '11  lay  the  hand  you  love  in  yours 

On  the  shore  of  the  Hereafter. 

As  we  have  intimated,  Mary  Clemmer  commenced 
her  real  literary  life  as  a  newspaper  correspondent  This 
was  soon  after  her  marriage,  and  she  wrote  letters  from 
New  York  to  the  Utica  Morning  Herald,  a  journal  al- 
ways noted  for  the  excellence  oi  its  correspondence. 
Later,  she  delighted  a  large  constituency,  through  the 
Indepmdvit,  with  <CA  Woman's  Letters  from  Washing- 
ton, "  which  were  often  wise,  as  often  witty,  and  always 
bright,  hearty,  healthy  and  readable,  and  which  were  a 
notable  feature  in  that  paper's  make-up.  Enjoying  a  long 
residence  at  the  Nation's  Capital,  she  came  to  know  many 
secrets  of  political  history,  and  to  realize  the  general 
deceit  and  trickery  prevalent ;  but  despite  this,  she  kept 
her  woman's  heart  true  to  its  purest  instincts,  and  held  on 
and  still  holds  on  to  her  natural  faith  in  the  noble  and 
the  good.  That  she  longs  sometimes  for  a  different  at- 
mosphere, this  extract  will  show : 


292  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

"This  letter  is  only  a  good-morning  and  a  good-evening, 
dear  friends— a  salutation  on  the  threshold  of  winter,  as  we  meet 
once  more  with  all  the  fair  summer  between  us  and  our  last  good- 
by.  The  world  I  have  left  and  the  world  I  meet  do  not  easily 
coalesce.  The  strength  begotten  of  mountain  heights  ;  the  peace 
of  stormless  lakes  ;  the  pervasive  fragrance  ot  the  autumnal 
woods  ;  the  music  of  a  tiny  leaf  stirring  in  the  blue  air  ;  the 
rustle  of  a  squirrel  scampering  through  the  crisp  ferns,  with  his 
winter  nuts  ;  the  lowing  of  the  little  black  cow,  bossed  like  jet 
against  the  twilight  sky,  coming  home  across  the  russet  flat — all 
these  sights  and  sounds  of  a  far-off  pastoral  sphere  have  come 
with  me  hither.  Their  music  is  in  my  ears  and  their  love  in  my 
heart,  as  I  confront  this  other  world  that  is  '  no  relation  of  mine  ' 
— the  world  of  rush  and  hurry  and  roaring  streets  ;  the  world  of 
vanity  and  show  ;  of  policy,  treachery  and  place  ;  of  shallow  in- 
sight, of  harsh  misjudgment,  and  of  broken  faith.  This  is  not  my 
world.  I  confess  to  a  reluctant  hand  that  lifts  a  pen  to  tell  you  of 
its  doings.  I  am  in  it,  but  not  of  it.  " 

And  there  are  hints  here  of  a  soul  in  harmonic  rela- 
tion to  the  soul  of  Nature,  which  find  fuller  expression 
in  these  lines,  originally  contributed  to  the  Independent : 

ARBUTUS. 

Dear,  dear  Arbutus,  thou  dost  bring 
Far  more  to  me  than  tint  of  Spring, 
More  than  her  far  and  faint  perfume, 
Into  this  dim  and  dusty  room. 
We  are  old  friends,  Arbutus.     So 
I  saw  thee  smiling  long  ago. 
Where  is  the  child  that  culled  and  sung  ? 
Afar  I  see  her  fair  and  young . 


MARY  CLEMMER.  295 

Unto  the  woman's  pleading  touch 
Yields  the  old  sweetness — this  is  much  ; 
All  that  thou  gavest  to  me  then, 
And  how  much  more  thou  givest  again. 
This  April  morn  thou  art  the  same 
As  when  unto  the  child  thou  came. 
The  shadow  life  hath  o'er  me  flung 
Doth  reach  me  not,  oh,  sweet  and  young  ! 

Our  love  and  sorrow  mutely  trace 
The  lines  of  life  upon  the  face  ; 
But  deeper  in  the  soul  do  write 
All  they  have  wrought  afar  from  sight. 
The  rose  of  youth,  its  fadeless  grace, 
Liveth  alone  on  Nature's  face. 

Thus,  dear  Arbutus,  thou  dost  bring 
Far  more  to  me  than  tint  of  Spring, 
Than  hint  of  far-off  bursting  brooks, 
Of  woody  banks  and  noiseless  nooks, 
Where  thy  shy  sisters  hide  and  peer 
Through  leafy  veils,  with  smile  and  tear, 
The  coyest  coquettes  of  the  year. 

'Mid  din  of  street  and  rush  of  men 
Thou  makest  all  earth  young  again. 
Thou  say'st :     "  Far  from  men  and  mart, 
Still  yearns  thy  mighty  mother's  heart  ; 
She  sends  thee  me  thy  heart  to  move, 
Fresh  token  of  her  changeless  love. 
She  says:  'Come  back,  oh  !  life-worn  child  ; 
Drink  from  my  springs  the  undefiled.'  " 

Deep,  deep  within  my  solitudes 

The  soul  of  peace  and  soothing  broods, 

Half  silent,  all  with  life  astir ; 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

The  morning  murmur  of  the  fir, 
At  dawn's  high  calm  above  the  hill  ; 
The  thread-like  ripple  of  the  rill, 
Lapsing  through  mosses  fringing  cool  ; 
The  stillness  of  the  Hlied  pool ; 
The  calmness  of  the  mountain  crown, 
Poising  a  star  the  night  drops  down  : 
The  rhythm  of  the  awful  sea, 
Rolling  from  out  eternity, 
Calling,  calling,  eternally  ! 

Till  thou  beyond  the  ocean's  bar, 
Beyond  the  gleam  of  sun  or  star, 
Do  seem  to  feel  the  Soul  from  far, 
From  whom  it  rolls,  from  whom  we  are, 
The  while  the  long,  long  tides  bear  in 
Treasure  and  wreck,  with  muffled  din, 
Then  break  in  music's  pulsing  thrill 
Along  the  sands  when  winds  are  still. 

When  thou,  poor  soul,  hast  had  thy  fill 
Of  swift,  loud  life,  yet  yearning  still 
For  all  thou  hast  not,  bliss  unfound,    - 
Beyond  thy  speech  or  being's  bound, 
Turn  thou  unto  thy  first  love's  grace  ; 
Come  thou  and  lay  thy  faded  face 
Upon  my  bosom.     Thou  wilt  see 
That  all  that  never  faileth  thee, 
Abiding  ever,  changing  not 
With  any  chance  of  mortal  lot 
Or  any  coldness  of  the  heart, 
Beyond  the  ken  of  human  art, 
Beyond  all  human  power  to  give, 
Deep  in  the  universe  do  live, 


MARY  CLEMMER.  295 

Nor  change  nor  death  can  them  destroy, 
The  youth  of  Nature,  Nature's  joy. " 

Arbutus,  thou  dost  faintly  swing 
The  subtle  censer  of  the  Spring, 
t     I  sip  thy  wine,  I  kiss  thy  lips, 
I  softly  touch  thy  pinky  tips  ; 
More  than  I  say  art  thou  to  me, 
A  past  and  still  a  joy  to  be  ! 
If  e'er  I  stand  of  all  bereft, 
As  they  do  stand  whom  Death  has  left, 
A  treasure  dearer  far  than  gold 
Mine  empty  hands  will  seek  and  hold, 
The  first  Arbutus  of  the  Spring  ;  , 

A  simple  thing,  a  little  thing, 
Yet  incense-bearer  to  the  King, 
His  tidings  glad  borne  on  its  wing  ! 
All  my  lost  life  't  will  backward  bring, 
And  all  the  life  before  't  will  touch 
With  Spring's  young  glory.     'T  will  be  much — 
How  much  !     Yet  such  a  little  thing — 
The  first  Arbutus  of  the  Spring  ! 

Mrs.  Clemmer  was  literally  in  the  War,  was  under  fire 
many  times,  saw  heavy  battles,  and  was  taken  prisoner 
once,  with  Mr,  Ames.  Although  not  "Eirene,  "  as  a 
person,  the  "Diary,  "and  the  chapter  on  the  "Surrender 
of  Maryland  Heights,  "  in  her  novel  of  that  name,  were 
personal  experiences.  The  following  ringing  stanzas 
were  written  in  Virginia,  in  sight  of  the  regiment  to  which 
they  were  addressed,  and  will  recall  a  thrilling  picture 
in  the  minds  of  many  who  were  long  accustomed  to  the 
suggestive  order 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

"FALL  IN." 

See,  see  !  yon  gleaming  line  of  light, 

The  enemy's  bayonets  bristle  bright ; 
O,  boys,  there  '11  be  a  fight  to-night, 
Fall  in  ! 

Under  the  woods  of  frozen  larch, 

Under  the  night  sky's  icy  arch, 
It  ends  at  last,  the  dreadful  march  •• 
Fall  in  ! 

Fall  in  !  no  bivouac  to-night ; 

Beneath  the  stars  so  still  and  bright, 
The  glistening  bayonets  glitter  white  ; 
Fall  in! 

Fall  in.!  we  're  hungry,  bruised  and  torn  ; 
With  .snow  and  rain  beaten  and  worn, 
Yet  "  ready  for  duty, "  we  've  proudly  sworn  ; 
Fall  in  ! 

A  second  for  dreams  !     Under  our  eyes, 
Oh  see,  how  softly  they  seem  to  rise, 
The  hills  of  home  and  her  summer  skies  ! 
Fall  in  ! 

One  sigh  for  home,  for  the  fair  face  prest 

Close  to  the  heart,  'neath  the  rugged  vest, 
The  face  of  the  one  we  love  the  best  • 

Fall  in ! 
O,  say,  for  a  flash  shall  the  brown  face  pale, 

The  quick,  young  nerves  in  their  warm  life  quail, 
To  meet  the  thud  of  leaden  hail  ? 
Fall  in ! 

The  storm  of  shells,  the  bullet's  whir. 
The  clash  of  sabre  no  fear  can  stir  ; 


MA  R  Y  CLEM  ME  R  .  2  9  7 

We  fight  for  freedom,  for  home,  for  her  ! 
Fall  in  ! 

Ever  with  steady  step  we  go, 

With  rifles  ready  in  serried  row, 
Into  the  face  of  the  insolent  foe, 
Fall  in ! 

Our  hearts  up-leap  in  passionate  pain, 

O,  see,  they  fall,  our  heroic  slain, 
The  enemy's  masses  charge  and  gain  ! 
Fall  in  ! 

Fall  in  '  the  eager  bugles  beat ; 

Fall  in  !  march  on  with  prescient  feet, 
Smite  low  the  foe,  where  the  armies  meet ; 
Fall  in  ! 

To  front !  its  ranks  are  red  and  thin, 

The  victor  flaunts  his  banner  of  sin  ; 
O,  comrades,  forward  !  to  die  or  win, 
Fall  in  ! 

No  other  woman  of  our  acquaintance — we  had  al- 
most said  no  othei  person — has  performed  such  an 
amount  of  literary  labor  in  a  given  time  as  Mrs.  Clem- 
mer's  record  shows.  For  three  years  her  average  work  in 
Washington,  as  we  happen  to  know,  was  seven  newspa- 
per letters  each  week ;  and  in  addition  to  this  she  pro- 
duced four  books  in  four  years — a  task  sufficient  of  itself 
to  consume  all  her  time  and  strength.  She  entered  into 
contract  with  the  publishers  of  one  journal  to  write  a  col- 
umn a  day  for  three  years,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
she  had  not  missed  a  day.  The  wonder  is  that  producing 


298  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

so  much,  she  has  uniformly  produced  so  well.  All  her 
books  have  taken  form  under  stress  of  wearing  daily 
duties,  and  yet  each  witnesses  to  the  hand  of  an  artisi. 
"Eirene,  or  A  Woman's  Right,  "  published  serially  in 
Putnam  s  Magazine,  was  soon  succeeded  by  "A  Memo- 
rial of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,"  from  the  Riverside  Press. 
"  Outlines  of  Men,  Women  and  Things  "  came  next,  fol- 
lowed shortly  by  "Ten  Years  in  Washington,  "  published 
in  1872  by  A.  D.  Worthington  &  Co.,  Hartford,  as  a  sub- 
scription book,  and  immensely  successful.  "His  Two 
Wives,  "  her  latest  volume,  was  written  as  a  serial  for 
Every  Saturday,  and  published  in  complete  form  re- 
cently by  Kurd  &  Hough  ton.  Perhaps  her  most  hal- 
lowed work  is  the  Memorial  to  the  Gary  sisters,  full  of  affec- 
tionate tenderness  and  sensitive  appeciation — a  tribute 
which  does  scarcely  less  honor  to  her  womanly  generosity 
than  to  their  memory  and  worth.  The  long-time  inn- 
mate  companion  of  the  two  poetesses,  she  has  linked  her 
name  indissolubiy  with  theirs  as  their  biographer  and 
friend. 

Light,  airy  and  playful  as  Mrs.  Clemmer's  writings 
often  are,  one  needs  only  to  read  a  chapter  or  two  of  the 
"Memorial"  to  see  how  deeply  sympathetic  her  nature 
is.  This  same  tenderness  of  sympathy  and  sentiment 
finds  frequent  expression  in  her  verse,  as  in  the  following  : 

GOOD-BY,  SWEETHEART . 
Good-by,  sweetheart. 
I  leave  thee  with  the  loveliest  things 
The  beauty-burdened  spring-time  brings, 


MARY  CLEMMER.  299 

The  anemone  in  snowy  hood, 
The  sweet  arbutus  in  the  wood. 
And  to  the  smiling  skies  above 
I  say,  Bend  brightly  o'er  my  love. 
And  to  the  perfume-breathing  breeze 
I  sigh,  Sing  softest  symphonies ! 
O,  lute-like  leaves  of  laden  trees 
Bear  all  your  sweet  refrain  to  him, 
While  in  the  June-time  twilights  dim 
He  thinks  of  me  as  I  of  him. 
And  so  good-by,  sweetheart ! 

Good-by,  sweetheart ! 
I  leave  thee  with  all  purest  things, 
That  when  some  fair  temptation  sings 
Its  luring  song,  though  sore  beset, 
Thou  'It  stronger  be.     Then  no  regret 
Life-long  will  after  follow  thee. 
With  touches  lighter  than  the  air, 
I  kiss  thy  forehead  brave  and  fair, 
And  say  to  God  this  last  deep  prayer : 

0  guard  him  always,  night  and  day, 
So  from  Thy  peace  he  shall  not  stray! 
And  so  good-by,  sweetheart! 

Good-by,  sweetheart,  we  seem  to  part ! 
Yet  still  within  my  inmost  heart 
Thou  goest  with  me.     Still  my  place 

1  hold  in  thine  by  love's  dear  grace  ; 
Yet  all  my  life  seems  going  out, 

As  slow  I  turn  my  face  about, 
To  go  alone  another  way, 
To  be  alone  till  life's  last  day, 
Unless  thy  smile  can  light  my  way. 


300  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHOKS. 

Good-by,  sweetheart.     The  dreaded  dawn, 
That  tells  our  love's  long  tryst  is  gone, 
Is  purpling  all  the  pallid  sky, 
As  low  1  sigh,  sweetheart,  good-by ! 

She  is  deeply  religious  as  well.  Mingling  much  and 
long  with  the  gayeties  of  fashionable  society,  flattered  and 
caressed  by  wealth  and  position  as  genius  ever  is,  she 
still  with  longing  heart  looks  away  from  these  allurements 
here,  to 

SOMETHING  BEYOND. 

Something  beyond  !  Though  now,  with  joy  unfound, 

The  life-task  falleth  from  thy  weary  hand, 
Be  brave,  be  patient !     In  the  fair  Beyond 
Thou  'It  understand. 

Thou  'It  understand  why  our  most  royal  hours  - 

Couch  sorrowful  slaves,  bound  by  low  nature's  greed  ; 
Why  the  celestial  soul  's  a  minion  made 
To  narrowest  need. 

In  this  pent  sphere  of  being  incomplete, 

The  imperfect  fragment  of  a  beauteous  whole. 
For  yon  rare  regions,  where  the  perfect  meet, 
Sighs  the  lone  soul. 

Sighs  for  the  perfect !     Far  and  fair  it  lies  ; 

It  hath  no  half-fed  friendships  perishing  fleet, 
No  partial  insight,  no  averted  eyes, 
No  loves  unmeet. 

Something  beyond  !     Light  for  our  clouded  eyes  ! 

In  this  dark  dwelling,  in  its  shrouded  beams, 
Our  Best  waits  masked  ;  few  pierce  the  soul's  disguise  ; 
How  sad  it  seems 


MARY  CLEMMER.  301 

Something  beyond  !     Ah,  if  it  were  not  so, 

Darker  would  be  thy  lace,  O  brief  to-day ! 
Earthward  we  'd  bow  beneath  life's  smiting  woe, 
Powerless  to  pray. 

Something  beyond  !     The  immortal  morning  st.inds 

Above  the  night  ;  clear  shines  her  prescient  brow  ; 
The  pendulous  star  in  her  transfigured  hands 
Brightens  the '  Now. 

Nevertheless,  she  recognises  the  power  which  can 
bless  and  make  glad  our  being  of  to-day, — she  does  not 
cry  out  against  mortality  as  if  it  were  a  thing  orphaned  of 
God — but  conscious  of  divine  presence,  and  the  possibil- 
ities of  divine  help,  she  hymns  her  trust  thus  reverently  to 

THE  CHRIST. 

Thou  livest  on  the  earth,  dear  Lord  ! 

Thou  art  not  far  away — 
A  name  within  a  misty  word — 

Thou  'rt  with  us  here  to-day. 

We  've  listened  to  the  battle's  shock, 

The  weary  cry  of  creeds, 
Unmoved  the  Shepherd  of  His  flock 

His  loving  people  leads. 

Thou  livest  on  the  earth,  dear  Lord  ! 

What  tears  of  sorrow  flow, 
What  toil  there  is — what  poor  reward, 

What  want  Thy  children  know. 

Thou  livest  on  the  earth  to-day, 
Wherever  Patience  stands, 


2o2  WA  IPS  A  ND   THEIR  A  U  THOR  S. 

Where  holy  Love  kneels  down  to  pray, 
Where  Faith  uplifts  her  hands. 

And  thus  alike  in  storm  or  shine 

We  lift  our  eyes  to  see 
Thy  lovely  face,  Thy  face  divine, 

Thy  face  that  makes  us  free. 

Free  from  the  shadow  sin  has  cast, 

Free  from  all  passions  ill, 
And  free  to  rest  when  life  is  past, 

In  regions  fair  and  still. 

So  fearing  much,  and  loving  much, 

The  tides  of  life  we  stem, 
And  stretch  a  faltering  hand  to  touch 

Thy  far-off  garment's  hem. 

That  haply  to  our  souls  at  length, 

Thy  saving  grace  may  flow, 
And  we  may  gain  the  winged  strength, 

Thy  ransomed  children  know. 

So  halting,  falling  often  in 

The  kingdom  of  our  birth, 
What  joy  !     Our  Heavenly  Kinsman  still 

Walks  with  us  on  the  earth. 

Mrs.  Clemrher  is  described  as  being  "  tall  and  stately, 
with  dark  brown  hair,  brilliant  blue  eyes,  and  with  a 
beaming  expression  of  frank  kindness  that  prepares  you 
for  the  vivacity  and  sweetness  of  her  conversation.  "  Her 
character,  as  portrayed  by  her  friends,  and  judged  by  her 
books,  is  that  of  one  fearless,  true  and  strong ;  impulsive, 
yet  generous  in  temper,  and  with  a  large  and  noble  char- 
ity for  all. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


>ME  souls  there  are  that  seem  close  linked  with 
the  great  heart  of  Nature  by  cords  most  delicate 
and  sensitive.  "  The  glory  of  day,  the  glamour 
of  night,  the  witchery  of.  wind  and  wave,  the  wooing 
sense  of  tone  and  color,  the  gladness  of  spring  and  the 
glow  of  autumn,  take  hold  upon  them  irresistibly,  mas- 
ter them,  control  them,  possess  them.  They  are  true 
poets,  even  though  they  never  attempt  poetic  expression. 
They  have  a  more  perfect  communion  with  the  soul  of 
poetry  than  lips  can  syllable  or  pen  depict.  Here  and 
there  may  be  found  one  who  unites  to  this  marvelous  sym- 
pathy a  marvelous  art — the  art  of  perfect  description,  of 
vivid  portrayal,  in  which  every  tint  is  preserved,  every 
symbol  interpreted,  every  thought  vivified  and  made 
clear.  Pre-eminent  among  these  is  the  author  of 

A  FOUR-O'CLOCK. 

A.h,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so  ! 
Forever  in  mid  afternoon, 
Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June ! 
Pour  out  thy  sunshine  on  the  hill, 
The  piny  woods  with  perfume  fill, 
And  breathe  across  the  singing  sea 
Land-scented  breezes  that  shall  be 


04  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

Sweet  as  the  gardens  that  they  pass, 
Where  children  tumble  in  the  grass  1 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! 
Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so  ! 
And  long  not  for  thy  blushing  rest 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  the  West, 
But  bid  gray  evening  get  her  back 
With  all  the  stars  upon  her  track  ! 
Forget  the  dark,  forget  the  dew, 
The  mystery  of  the  midnight  blue. 
And  only  spread  thy  wide  warm  wings 
While  summer  her  enchantment  flings  : 

Ah,  happy  day,  refuse  to  go  ! 

Hang  in  the  heavens  forever  so  ! 

Forever  let  thy  tender  mist 

Lie  like  dissolving  amethyst 

Deep  in  the  distant  dales,  and  shed 

Thy  mellow  glory  overhead  ! 

Yet  wilt  thou  wander — call  the  thrush, 

And  have  the  wilds  and  waters  hush 

To  hear  his  passion-broken  tune, 

Ah,  happy  day  of  happy  June  ! 

Among  the  early  contributors  to  The  Atlantic  and 
Harper  s  Magazine,  the  name  of  Harriet  Prescott  was 
often  seen,  and  it  speedily  became  associated,  in  the 
minds  of  appreciative  readers,  with  a  powerful  imagina- 
tion, rare  grace  of  fancy,  and  lavish  wealth  of  diction. 
The  descriptive  sketches  and  stories  with  which  it  was 
connected  had  a  character,  an  individuality,  peculiarly 
their  own,  and  gave  promise  of  exceptional  literary  per- 


HARRIET  P RE  SCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


3°5 


formance  later  on.  They  all  testified,  with  more  or  less 
emphasis,  that  here  was  a  strongly  poetic  nature,  express- 
ing itself  through  the  ordinary  forms  of  prose.  Critics 
found  some  fault  with  the  writer's  art — it  was  too  prod- 
igal of  pigments,  they  thought,  too  extravagant,  too 
like  a  very  spendthrift  of  riches.  But  they  were 
generous.  They  offered  the  common  excuse  of  youth  in 
behalf  of  her  who,  we  suspect,  would  not  have  offered  any 
excuse  for  herself;  and  they  waited  patiently  for  the  bet- 
ter art,  or  what  they  were  pleased  to  believe  would  be  the 
better  art,  in  work  of  maturer  years. 

Meanwhile  the  stones  crystallized  into  books,  and 
multiplied  their  friends.  The  first  volume  was  "  Sir  Rol- 
and's Ghost,  "  published  in  1860,  and  succeeded  by  "The 
Amber  Gods  and  Other  Stories,  "  which  received  wider 
perusal,  and  was  followed  in  turn  by  "Azarian.  "  "Aza- 
rian,  An  Episode,"  the  author  calls  it,  in  hall  humility. 
"Azarian,  A  Life,  "  would  be  truer  as  a  title,  so  much  of 
richly  endowed  being  is  embodied  in  it.  It  is  altogether 
unique.  It  has  no  rival ;  it  can  have  none.  In  color  it  is 
a  genuine  Raphael ;  the  tone  is  that  of  Beethoven,  with 
all  his  exquisite  possibilities.  The  " Moonlight  Sonata" 
is  more  than  hinted  of  in  one  touch: 

"  He  leaned  over  his  boatside — miles  away  from  any  shore,  a 
star  looked  down  from  far  above.,  a  star  looked  up  from  far  below, 
the  glint  passed  as  instantly,  and  left  him  the  sole  spirit  between 
immense  concaves  of  void  and  fullness,  shut  in  like  the  flaw  in  a 
diamond.  J» 

20 


3o6  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

"Azarian"  is  more  than  a  story,  although  a  very 
readable  story  it  is: — it  is  a  beautiful  bouquet,  of  hues 
the  most  brilliant,  and  heavy  with  perfume.  Another 
tribute  to  bud  and  bloom,  so  free,  so  unstinted,  yet  so 
choice,  can  not  anywhere  be  shown.  Its  entire  atmos- 
phere is  charged  with  the  flavor  and  sweetness  of  flowers, 
and  none  who  read  it  will  be  surprised  at  chancing  upon 
some  dainty  "Flower  Songs  "  from  the  same  pen,  one  of 
which  is  breathed  by 

THE  ROSE . 

I  am  the  one  rich  thing  that  morn 
Leaves  for  the  ardent  noon  to  win  ; 

Grasp  me  not,  I  have  a  thorn, 

But  bend  and  take  my  fragrance  in. 

The  dew  drop  on  my  bosom  gives 

The  whole  of  heaven  to  searching  eyes  : 

Only  he  who  sees  it,  lives, 

And  only  he  who  slights  it  dies. 

Ah  !  what  bewildering  warmth  and  wealth 

Gather  within  my  central  fold  ! 
Love-lorn  airs  of  happy  health 

Hive  with  the  honey  that  I  hold. 

This  dazzling  ruddiness  divine 

Shrouds  spicy  savors  deep  and  dear  ; 

Passion's  sign  and  countersign, 

The  inmost  meaning  of  the  sphere. 

Petal  on  petal  opening  wide, 
My  being  into  beauty  flows — 


HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  3 o 7 

Hundred-leaved  and  damask-dyed — 
Yet  nothing,  nothing  but  a  rose. 

Not  alone  does  color  hide  in  the  heart  of  the  rose 
and  the  veins  of  the  vjolet.  There  is  crimson  in  the  sun- 
set, azure  in  the  sea.  A  hundred  dyes  lurk  in  the  world 
around — in  forest,  wave  and  sky — seen  of  the  few  only, 
it  is  quite  possible,  unheeded  by  the  many,  but  veritable 
existences,  and  part  of  the  universal  beauty.  The  white 
glow  of  sunlight  begins  and  ends  in  color.  There  is 
more  glory  and  gladness  than  men  commonly  observe  in 

DAYBREAK. 

Through  rosy  dawns  of  June  I  go, 

Again  the  deepening  sweetness  part, 

While  all  their  raptures  round  me  flow 
And  bubble  freshly  in  my  heart. 

The  broad  blue  mountains  lift  their  brows 
Barely  to  bathe  them  in  the  blaze  ; 

The  bobolinks  from,  silence  rouse 
And  flash  along  melodious  ways  ! 

And  hid  beneath  the  grasses,  wet 

With  long  carouse,  a  honeyed  crew, 

Anemone  and  violet, 

Yet  rollicking,  are  drunk  with  dew. 

How  soft  the  wind  that  blows  my  hair — 
•  That  steals  the  song  off  from  my  lip, 

And  mounts  in  gladder  tumult  where 

The  numerous  branches  bend  and  dip  ! 

How  proudly  smiling  on  his  love 
The  sun  rides  up  the  central  blue, 


308  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS, 

While  like  the  wing  of  summer's  dove 
She  changes  to  his  changing  view. 

All  loveliness  in  every  light, 

Voluptuous  beauty  o'er  her  strewn, 

A  thing  to  lap  the  soul's  d«light 

While  morning  widens  into  noon. 

Harriet  E.  Prescott  was  born  in  Calais,  Me.,  April 
3,  1835,  and  educated  in  Deny,  N.  H. ,  and  Newbury- 
port,  Mass.  After  she  had  acquired  a  wide  reputation, 
through  the  magazines  and  the  books  we  have  referred  to, 
she  was  married  to  Mr.  Richard  S.  Spofford  at  Newbury-. 
port,  where  her  only  child  was  born,  and  where  she 
still  resides  a  large  part  of  the  time.  It  would  seem  as  if 
her  home  must  have  been  always  by  the  sea,  so  familiar 
is  she  with  its  lights  and  shades,  the  weather-wisdom  of  its 
followers,  their  superstitions  and  their  whims.  Coast- 
life,  its  solitudes,  its  companionships,  its  contrasts  and  its 
tragic  possibilities,  are  to  her  ever  as  a  lesson  learned. 
She  is  equally  certain  of  herself  in  calm  and  stoim.  She 
delights  as  much  in  the  raging,  roaring  gale,  as  in  tran- 
quil swells  and  gently  rippling  waves. 

"The  South  Breaker"  would  justify  any  extravagant 
words  we  might  u&e  in  this  connection.  Very  wisely  did 
Rossiter  Johnson  include  that  sketch  in  his  admirable 
''Little  Classics"  series,  for  in  the  field  of  contemporane- 
ous Romance  it  has  become  classic.  In  its  way,  it  is  so 
perfect  as  to  challenge  criticism,  Beyond  its  descriptive 
excellence  literary  art  can  not  hope  to  go.  And  yet  its 


HARRIET  PRE SCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


3<>9 


description  is  not  more  graphic  than  much  Mrs.  Spofford 
has  given  us  beside.  In  this  respect  her  pen  is  almost  dan- 
gerously facile.  It  overflows  with  verbiage,  yet  every  word 
has  the  merit  of  fitness,  and  the  reader  would  never  have 
it  more  selfish  of  wealth.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Spofford  is  one  of 
the  few  writers  whom  it  is  a  genuine  pleasure  to  read  for 
the  words'  sake  simply,  without  regard  to  any  meaning  of 
the  text.  Her  very  sentences  charm  by  their  beauty,  as 
well  as  fascinate  often  by  their  force.  She  is  never  sparing, 
yet  never  redundant.  All  that  can  be  said,  for  the  effect's 
sake,  she  says,  but  there  she  stays  her  hand. 

Yet  one  of  the  secrets  of  her  marvelous  art  is  the 
fact  that  she  never  seems  to  be  saying  anything  for  effect. 
No  feature  of  any  scene  is  introduced  for  an  apparent 
descriptive  purpose,  to  heighten  the  general  view.  It  was 
all  there,  you  feel,  before  she  began.  She  is  merely  tell- 
ing of  what  is.  Like  a  true  artist,  she  leaves  nothing 
out,  but  she  is  pre-Raphaelistic.  She  is  intensely  real ; 
so  real  that  you  see  what  she  sees,  feel  what  she  feels.  If 
her  heart  be  passion-swept  for  an  instant,  so  is  yours.  If 
she  is  gazing  into  the  clear  depths  of  heaven,  your  eyes  be- 
hold the  same  stars.  If  fog  and  darkness  chill  her 
through  and  through,  you  shiver  even  as  does  she. 

This  strongly  realistic  power  is  rare.  It  pre-supposes 
not  only  the  most  powerful  imagination,  but  the  keenest 
observation,  and  the  most  subtle  sentiment — a  sentiment 
that  runs  from  heart  to  heart,  from  life  to  life,  and  of 
which  we  get  a  glimpse  in  the  following 


3IO  WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

SONG. 

It  was  nothing  but  a  rose  I  gave  her, 

Nothing  but  a  rose 
Any  wind  might  rob  of  half  its  savor, 

Any  wind  that  blows. 

When  she  took  it  from  my  trembling  fingers, 

With  a  hand  as  chill — 
Ah,  the  flying  touch  upon  them  lingers, 

Stays  and  thrills  them  still ! 

Withered,  faded,  pressed  between  these  pages, 

Crumpled,  fold  on  fold — 
Once  it  lay  upon  her  breast,  and  ages 

Can  not  make  it  old  ! 

These  three  stanzas  were  first  published  in  Harper's 
Bazar,  to  which  Mrs.  Spofford  has  been  a  frequent  con- 
tributor, as  were  the  three  entitled 

APRIL  . 

A  gush  of  bird-song,  a  patter  of  dew, 
A  cloud,  and  a  rainbow's  warning, 

Suddenly  sunshine  and  perfect  blue — 
An  April  day  in  the  morning  ! 

Magical,  autumn  hazes  are, 

And  sweet  is  your  summer  weather 

With  its  purple  midnight's  throbbing  star 
Over  lovers  clasped  together. 

Rut  dearer  to  me  these  daring  flowers 
The  passionate  noontide  scorning, 

This  gladsome  slipping  of  silver  showers, 
This  April  day  in  the  morning ! 


HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  3  T  r 

It  is  in  the  dear  resurrection  time  of  the  year  that  a 
nameless  longing  fills  every  breast,  mute,  it  may  be,  per- 
haps never  striving  for  articulation,  yet  happily  voiced  in 
this  apostrophe,  likewise  from  the  Bazar  : 

O,  SOFT  SPRING  AIRS. 

Come  up,  come  up,  O,  soft  spring  airs, 
Come  from  your  silver  shining  seas, 

Where  all  day  long  you  toss  the  waves 
About  the  low  and  palm-plumed  keys  ! 

Forsake  the  spicy  lemon  groves, 

The  balms  and  blisses  of  the  South, 

And  blow  across  the  longing  land 

The  breath  of  your  delicious  mouth. 

Come  from  the  almond  bough  you  stir, 
The  myrtle  thicket  where  you  sigh — 

Oh,  leave  the  nightingale,  for  here 
The  robin  whistles  far  and  nigh  ! 

For  here  the  violet  in  the  wood 

Thrills  with  the  sweetness  you  shall  take, 

And  wrapped  away  from  life  and  love 

The  wild  rose  dreams,  and  fain  would  wake. 

For  here  is  reed  and  rush  and  grass, 

And  tiptoe  in  the  dark  and  dew, 
Each  sod  of  the  brown  earth  aspires 

To  meet  the  sun,  the  sun  and  you  ! 

Then  come,  O  fresh  spring  airs,  once  more 

Create  the  old  delightful  things, 
And  woo  the  frozen  world  again 

With  hints  of  heaven  upon  your  wings  ! 


3 1 2  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  A  UTHORS. 

But  before  the  spring's  gladness  and  promise  there  is 
ever  a  winter  of  weariness  and  regret,  unless  one  remem- 
bers, as  did  Mrs.  Spofford  in  Leslies  Illustrated  Weekly, 
that  there  is  something  more  than  frost  and  death 

UNDER  THE  SNOWDRIFT. 

Under  the  snowdrift  the  blossoms  are  sleeping, 
Dreaming  their  dreams  of  sunshine  and  June, 
Down  in  the  hush  of  their  quiet  they  're  keeping 
Thrills  from  the  throstle's  wild  summer-swung  tune. 

Under  the  snowdrifts  what  blossoms  are  sleeping 
Never  to  waken  with  sunshine  or  June  ! 
Do  they  dream  dreams  of  the  eyes  that  are  weeping — 
Under  the  snowdrift— by  midnight  and  noon  ? 

Mrs.  Spofford  is  a  strange  product  of  New  England 
culture  and  life,  it  we  are  to  measure  these  by  ac- 
cepted popular  standards.  That  Puritanism  could  beget 
such  fervidness  of  fancy,  such  fragrance  of  feeling,  such 
exuberance  of  imagination  and  such  warmth  of  passion  as 
she  embodies,  who  would  believe?  From  thought  in 
Quaker  garb  she  takes  us  as  by  magic  to  thought  robed 
in  purple  and  scarlet.  With  her  there  are  no  neutral  tints. 
Her  colors  are  pronounced,  distinct,  glowing.  Is  it  be- 
cause she  seems  to  stand  forever  so  near  to  the  tragic  side 
of  things  ?  She  does  seem  to  stand  there — to  see  the  un- 
written tragedies  that  none  may  ever  read — to  take  at 
times  a  morbid  pleasure  in  the  pains  and  griefs  that  vex 
so  many,  and  make  sad  the  world.  Yet  when  any  of  her 
characters  are  tragically  overcome,  one  can  not  resist  the 


HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  3 1 3 

fancy,  or  haply  the  feeling,  that  she  grieves  over  it  even 
to  the  bitterness  of  tears. 

Mrs.  SpofforcTs  later  books  are  * '  New  England  Le- 
gends, "  and  <1A  Thief  in  the  Night."  Her  work  is 
chiefly  for  the  magazines,  and  consists  mainly  of  short 
stories,  so  full  of  popular  interest,  albeit  so  admirable  as 
to  art,  that  they  are  generally  copied  by  the  newspapers, 
and  extensively  read.  She  writes  comparatively  little 
verse,  but  what  she  does  put  forth  meets  commonly  the 
same  wide  perusal.  If  it  be  never  so  strong, -so  intense, 
as  her  prose,  there  is  small  wonder.  Such  power  never 
expresses  itself  to  the  fullest  extent  in  two  ways. 

We  have  alluded  to  Mrs.  Spofford's  intense  sympa- 
thy with  Nature.  In  the  following  it  is  plainly  apparent, 
and  as  we  read  the  wish  will  rise  that  we  might  be  where 
it  is  always 

AFTERNOON ' . 

The  boat  is  rocking  on  the  river  ; 
The  river  life  is  all  awake  ; 
The  tide  is  coming  in  ; 
A  thousand  ripples  run  and  shiver  ; 

Oars  flash  ;  and  where  the  waters  break 
Flashes  a  silver  fin. 

Oars  flash  and  dip  ;  as  if  on  wings 

We  sweep  above  the  sweeping  stream, 

While  like  a  fount  of  light 
Into  the  sun  the  sturgeon  springs, 

And  blue  the  arrowy  swallows  gleam 
Above  us  in  their  flight. 


3 14  WAIFS  AND  THEIR  AUTHORS. 

Beyond  the  breakers  and  the  bar 

The  great  ships  with  their  swelling  sails 

Are  tossing  out  to  sea  ; 
They  slide  through  night  and  distance  far 
For  gulfs  where  brood  the  unknown  gales 
To  tempt  the  mystery. 

But  we,  between  the  blossoming  shores, 

Wilt  pluck  the  boughs,  will  mark  the  rills, 

Tumbling  their  foam  along, 
Will  wait,  in  resting  on  our  oars, 

Some  message  from  the  mighty  hills, 
Or  catch  some  plowboy's  song. 

Or,  happier  we  than  they  whose  choice 
Pursues  the  dark  and  awful  swells, 

Thus,  till  the  stars,  to  roam, 
And  turn  when,  like  a  mother's  voice, 
We  hear  the  tender  evening  bells 
Chiding  us  sweetly  ho'me  ! 

Something  of  Mrs.  Spofford's  philosophy — aye 
something  of  her  faith,  that  sweeter,  better  thing — shines 
out  in  a  poem  on  "Sorrow,  "  which  personifies  the  god- 
dess of  grief,  and  questions  if,  finally,  there  be  any  hope 
in  death. 

Then  Sorrow,  pale  and  statuesque, 

Lifts  heavenward  her  blind  blue  eyes, 
While,  gorgeous  as  an  arabesque, 

The  bloom  of  summer  round  her  lies. 
Though  she  nor  blossom  sees  nor  star, 

The  murmur  of  the  wind  she  hears, 
And  answering,  smijes  more  awful  far 

Because  forlorn  of  any  tears  ; 


HARRIET  P  RE  SCOTT  SPOFFORD.  315 

"  In  God's  great  music  I 

Am  the  unfailing  minor, 
And  every  sigh,  spreading  from  heart  to  eye, 
Throbs  on  the  chord  diviner. 

"  My  fate  is  Him  I  trust, 

To  whom  alone  I  hearken  ; 
My  Lord  and  King,  my  Merciful  and  Juct, 
More  bright  as  shadows  darken  ! 

"I  grasp  hearts  till  they  bleed, 

I  strengthen  bitterly, 
I  sow  a  seed  which  saints  indeed, 
Reap  for  me  utterly. 

41  On  cheerless  roads  no  smile 

Breaking  to  echoing  laughter  ; 
His  patience  I  accept  a  little  while,   • 
And  find  His  joy  hereafter. 

"  O  dreary,  dreary  stay  ! 

Yet  on  great  faith  relying, 
Blind  to  the  gay,  fleet  pageant  of  to-day, 
What  splendor  comes  through  dying  !  " 

Then  comes  another  question,  re-echoing  in  so  many 
hearts  even  now : 

"  What  is  that  last  dread  breath— to  die  ?  " 

and  we  cannot  better  close  this  chapter  and  our  book 
than  by  giving  Sorrow's  sweet  and  beautiful  answer  : 

"  To  feel  God's  glory  breaking  through 

Heaven  after  heaven,  and  streaming  down 
To  gather  off  the  cold  death-dew 

And  wipe  my  forehead  in  its  crown  ; 


WAIFS  AND   THEIR  AUTHORS. 

"  To  hear  a  voice  unheard  before, 

Or  in  a  dream  but  dimly  guessed, 
Whose  fall  more  sweet  than  sea  to  shore, 

Whose  burden — '  Child,  come  to  thy  rest  ! ' 


"  To  wake  on  light  at  dead  of  night, 

To  float  on  seas  most  clear  and  broad, 
To  read  the  scroll  of  life  aright, 
To  die— and  find  Thee,  Lord  ! " 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-70m-9,'65(F7151s4)458 


N2  434080 

Hopkins,   A. A. 

Waifs,  and  their 
authors . 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


